


Ghost in the Flesh

by Redcoat_Officer



Category: LOVE DEATH + ROBOTS (Cartoon), Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Biopunk, Canon-Typical Violence, Case 53, Crossover, Cyberpunk, Found Family, Gen, Mercenaries, Monsters, Not many Robots, Platonic Love, Superheroes, plenty of death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 129
Words: 470,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22835158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcoat_Officer/pseuds/Redcoat_Officer
Summary: Sonnie was riding the high of victory when she was betrayed and killed. But you can't kill an empty husk, and her revenge was swift and merciless. It was after this second victory that she disappeared, dosed and dumped onto an unfamiliar world.Lost and abandoned, she will find a home with a group of superpowered mercenaries as they struggle to find the truth of their origins. On the search, Sonnie might discover some truths of her own.
Comments: 177
Kudos: 250





	1. Discord: 1.01

She runs her fingers under my chin. Gently. Tenderly. I don't feel anything, as four blades spring out of her fingers and skewer my head.  
  
“You made Dicko so very, very, angry.”  
  
The hybrid bitch is centimetres from my face, holding me up by the claws she drove through my skull. The little sadist is enjoying this. In one swift movement she withdraws her claws, sending my body falling to the floor. I can feel the impact, barely, as it drives air from my lungs. I hear footsteps ringing out on metal as the bitch’s master comes to gloat.  
  
“Silly fucking girl.”  
  
He looks down at my bleeding body as his tart slips her pretty golden dress back onto her shoulders.  
  
“Was your pride really worth it?”  
  
I can barely talk, my control over my lungs and mouth are slipping, but I manage to choke out two words. He’s probably hoping I’ll beg.  
  
“Neat… trick.”  
  
He grunts in anger, and I see the bitch Jessica step over. She drives her high-heeled shoe into what’s left of my face with superhuman stregth, over and over until it’s little more than a stain on the floor. In the last moments before my eyes are crushed, I can see that rat bastard Dicko looking down at me with a sadistic grin. It’s a strange sensation. I am aware of the crack of bone and the squelching of flesh and grey matter but I can’t really feel it. There’s no pain, but then there hasn’t been any in a while.  
  
“Not… Good… Enough.”  
  
I speak through shattered teeth, gurgling out the words into some imitation of speech. The effort is worth it as I see Dicko’s grin turn sour. Even the bitch manages to look a little shocked. I laugh, but all that comes out are gurgles. The hybrid moves in to finish the job, but her sugar daddy holds her back. Dicko starts poking my body with his cane, as if that’ll help him unravel the mystery.  
  
“What are you?”  
  
He’s trying to sound calm, but I can hear panic creeping at the edge of his voice. Or maybe I’m just hearing things.  
  
“Just a couple of bioware processors, spliced to a spine.”  
  
He’s poking at the pile of viscera that replaced my brain, looking around in the mess as if he’ll find me there. He’s looking in the wrong place.  
  
“You’re not in there?”  
  
I leave the body to die on its own, to gurgle out the last scraps of air from its lungs. With the state it's in there’s no visual tell as I release control, no eyelids left to fall. Dicko’s still poking around in what’s left of my brains as I connect to the speaker in the corner of the trailer. My voice emerges, harsh and crystal clear.  
  
“No.”  
  
Both of them turn to the speaker, looking away from me, so I keep talking to draw their attention.  
  
“The night Wes and Ivrina found me they managed to save that body, but those estate fucks had broken my skull. You wanna know my edge?”  
  
The two of them are staring down at my lifeless body, except its not really mine. Not in any way that counts. Sure, I was born with it but that doesn’t mean I needed to stick with it. Behind them, hidden in the shadows, I begin to move my real body.  
  
“Every time I step into the ring, I’m fighting for my life. That fear is my edge.”  
  
It’s bloody magnificent, watching them realise just how fucked they are. All I can see are their backs, but they both turn as I speak. Jessica only manages to glimpse me in the corner of her eye before she breaks. She tries to sprint away, going at quite a pace for someone in heels, but she only makes it a couple of metres before I drive the point of my tail through the back of her skull. Before she’s even hit the ground, a second tail is winding its way around Dicko, holding him up in a constricting grip. I keep talking, forced to use the speaker.  
  
“That fear of death.”  
  
I twist him around, and step into the light. He can see me clearly now, a reptilian creature hunched over four legs ending in razor-sharp claws. If I were to stand, then I would be easily twice the height of this little man. The top of my body is covered in segmented plates of synthetic bone, all leading up to a wicked spike that runs down the length of my forehead. There’s an immense tail that stretches out from my upper back and the back of my head. It’s split into four independent tendrils, only one of which was needed to wrap up my prey.  
  
“Do you feel it?”  
  
“Please!” His voice is little more than a whimper.  
  
I growl, the only speech this body is capable of, and watch the fear in Dicko’s eyes change to pain as I crush the life out of him. This body was made for pit fighting, spliced together from the genetic code of Earth’s top predators and mixed with bioware aimed at mimicking extinct species, or blending them all together into something new. Beasties like this can be found in every city worth its salt, fighting in the arena under the control of a human Baiter, mind-linked to the beast. The control is as real as the tech allows, but there’s always that little bit of disconnect between the human and the beast.  
  
I’m the opposite. All my grey matter is inside Khanivore, inside the beast. It makes me a little faster, and I feel pain more vividly, but mostly it means that whenever I fight, it's my life on the line. All the other fighters play at being tough, but ultimately all they lose in defeat is their pride. Dicko wanted me to take a fall. Any other idiot might have accepted, but if I fall, I die. Seems the bastard couldn’t take no for an answer; bet he’s regretting that now. As I crush his bones into fragments, I whisper to him through the borrowed speaker, before breaking off the connection.  
  
“Are you scared now?”  
  
I let his lifeless corpse fall to the ground before moving over to what was once my body. It seems so small now, such a fragile little thing. Now that the adrenaline has died down, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do with myself. I can’t exactly keep up the ruse, not without a head. An orange flash in the corner of my eye startles me out of my thoughts and I black out.  
  
  
 _White walls, an empty cell, an orange light._  
  
  
I can feel rain falling down the side of my face, running along my armoured hide and onto my exposed belly. The cold water is a shock, and I stumble upright, my eyes wide and wary. This doesn’t make any sense. I had my tail around that bastard’s throat! I was squeezing the life out of him, feeling his bones shatter in my grip. Now I wake up in a fucking alley? I get stealing such a magnificent piece of Bitek, I really do, but why would they dump me in the middle of nowhere?  
  
I take a couple of steps, unsteady on my feet, before slamming my hand against the wall to stop me toppling over. The brickwork is old, but that doesn’t exactly tell me anything. Everything’s old in London, except for the city centre and this obviously isn’t that. I take another few unsteady steps before giving up and moving along on all fours. I feel like I’ve just been hit by a lorry. My head’s pounding, and my eyes keep blurring up. My right arm gives, and I end up lying on the ground with my flank pressed against the brick wall. Whatever fucked-up tranquilisers they hit me with must still be running through my system.  
  
So, to summarise, I'm leaning up against the walls of some shitty alley in the pouring rain with no sign of my team, or anyone else, come to think of it. What the hell’s going on? If it was Dicko’s goons there’s no way they’d leave me alive, and nobody else would just dump something as expensive as Khanivore in an alley. This body’s the product of a hundred thousand euros worth of accumulated costs; there’s no way it’d just fall of the back of a truck like a used tv.  
  
I’m pretty much useless while the drugs filter through my system, so when I hear feet splashing through puddles I’m instantly set on edge. I’m pretty sure I have enough strength left to claw the face off any bastard who gets too close, and I’d rather go down fighting if this is a kidnap job. I can hear voices now, but that just adds yet more questions.  
  
“C’mon Andy, there’s some overhanging scaffolding down here. Should keep us out of the rain for a bit.”  
  
The accent is American, but they don’t exactly sound like international smugglers. I draw myself as deep into the shadows as my bulk allows, and my caution allows me a momentary glimpse of the man. He looked like any other hard-done fellow, with ragged clothes and an unkempt beard. More to the point, he obviously wasn’t expecting me. The moment he spots me he turns tail and flees, shouting to his unseen friend to run while he still can. I listen to their feet splashing through the water, unable and unwilling to give chase. Something about what they said did stick, however, and I pull myself deeper into the alley until I reach an overhanging piece of scaffolding. It’s enough to shelter from the rain, and soon the drugs overtake me again.  
  
It’s dark when I wake, but at least the rain has stopped. I must have been out for a few hours, and yet no one came to collect on their stolen goods. It doesn’t make any sense.  
  
Whatever.  
  
The last of the drug must have left my system, my movements aren’t sluggish anymore and my vision is back to normal. I stretch my body, standing on two legs and looking up into the night sky. I can just about see the stars through the clouds, and the persistent glow of whatever city I'm in. That's something I'm sure of; not many homeless Americans in Battersea. As I stare up at the night sky, I begin to realise that the why isn’t important right now. I'm not in Battersea, I’m probably not even on the same side of the Atlantic. While it would be lovely to know just how I got here, that information isn’t exactly going to help me. I'd be better off getting my bearings.  
  
I can hear the sound of cars from the end of the alleyway, behind a bend in the road, but I decide against stepping out. Creatures like me belong in the arena, and people would flip a lid if they started walking the streets. Besides, there's no reason to confine myself to the ground. I stretch out my tail above my head, before splitting the point into four separate tendrils and the four blades of bone into the wall, spiking easily into the soft brickwork, before realising what's wrong. I pull the four points out of the wall in confusion before bringing them up to my eyes.  
  
In the fight against Turboraptor, still a stupid name, I’d lost the points off at least half my tail, not to mention being skewered right through my chest, and yet all four tendrils are now capped with the same knife-like bone carapace. It's as if I never stepped into that pit. As I look closer I realise that isn't entirely true; the tips show some signs of new growth. Whoever dumped me here had apparently decided to fix up my tail. It was nice of them, I suppose, but it only raises more questions.  
  
No point in wondering about that now.  
  
With two tendrils on either wall of the alley, it's easy work to hoist myself up the side of the two brick buildings. They are a little shorter than I'm used to, and I can occasionally see glowing lights behind closed curtains. Must be some kind of tower block, to have the lights on this late. The buildings are only eight stories tall, and soon I'm able to hoist myself up onto the roof. Hopefully nobody'll notice me, but then nobody ever really looks up.  
  
The city stretches before me, only raising more questions. I can see what must be the city centre, but everything seems a little on the cheap site. There are none of the glowing edifices that sit in the centre of London, no Dome or towering Arcologies, just utilitarian skyscrapers of simple glass. If this is America then it's a lot poorer than they show on telly. My confusion only grows as I look out onto the streets. There are plenty of cars about, but they all seem to be at least fifty years old. Despite that, every vehicle is in remarkably good nick. Something's wrong here.  
  
“Teuton to Console, there’s… something on the rooftops near Commerce and Highland. Suspected Case 53, please advise.”  
  
I whirl around in a panic, looking around at the empty rooftop. After a moment a slight movement draws my eyes upwards, and I see the impossible. There’s a man flying above the roof. He’s not in a helicopter or using some kind of sci-fi jetpack, he’s just standing in mid-air. He’s dressed like an idiot, in black tights with white armour and a helmet that only covers the top half of his face, but there’s something inherently menacing about him. This must be some American bitek, he certainly sounds like he's working with the Police. To him, I must look like a rogue servitor. Shit.  
  
The supercop begins to descend through the air but I don’t give him the chance to close the distance. Khanivore wasn’t built for long distance sprinting but I can still put on an impressive turn of speed. I book it to the edge of the rooftop before leaping off the edge, using my weight to smash through the brick walls of the next building over. I’ve crashed into some poor soul’s living room. It’s empty, thankfully, and I barrel through the front door of the flat and into the corridor in-between. In the brief glimpse I have of the room I note just how out of style everything seems to be, and how old the tech looks. If this is an American city, it’s a pretty poor one.  
  
The corridors are tight, and I’m barely able to squeeze through them, but I somehow manage to navigate my way along the twisting space until I burst into a stairwell, the cop no doubt hot on my heels. There’s no way I’d have a chance of escaping him on open ground, he can fly after all, but hopefully I can lose him in the good old concrete jungle. I burst into the stairwell, shattering the wooden door and much of the frame, and leap down the stairwell, destroying each door I pass. On the third floor I shatter the exit before leaping back to the fourth level of the stairwell, sliding through the door I destroyed there. Hopefully that should buy me a few seconds. I can’t outrun him, but I can lose him.  
  
This time I avoid the stairwell, instead heading for the sole window at the end of the corridor. I can’t hear the cop following me but, if he’s flying, I wouldn’t be able to hear him anyway. There’s a pane of glass between me and the street but I simply close my eyes and barrel through it. I drop four stories, driving my tendrils into the walls to slow my descent, before ending up on ground level again. I don’t bother checking if I’m being followed, instead dropping to all fours and sprinting through the alleyways until I reach the end of the block. A quick burst brings me across the street, scattering the occasional nightcrawler. I run further and further from the alley where I first woke, until I find a particularly dark spot to shelter in.  
  
I don’t know how long I spend huddled in the alleyway, hoping beyond hope that I’ve lost the flying man, but eventually I satisfy myself that there are no pursuers. My breathing is heavy, Khanivore was built for pit fighting, not marathon running, but I'm otherwise unharmed. I catch sight of my reflection in a puddle at my feet, a toothy grin and beady eyes framed by an enormous crest of engineered bone. What the hell am I supposed to do with myself? I'm weary, not from drugs or exertion, but from just how lost I really am. I have no idea where I am, and my human puppet body is lost twice over. I can’t talk, and it's not like people would stop to listen to the rogue bioweapon.  
  
I shake myself out of that line of thought, it isn't productive. I have to think about the small things, like the scrap of paper that had caught on one of my antenna. As I pull it off, I'm shocked to realise it's an actual newspaper, like in those old films. That shock is nothing compared to the twin revelations that hit me when I read the header:  
  
 _The Philidelphia Tribune, 02/25/2011_  
  
What the fuck?


	2. Discord: 1.02

I’m in the fucking past.  
  
No. Worse. I’m in somebody else’s past.  
  
It was the paper that tipped me off, the headline was all about something called the Simurgh destroying Canberra. I’m no Ozzie, but I’m pretty damn sure I remember shagging a bird who said she'd come over from Canberra. The local news is even weirder, talking about superheroes and some sort of Protectorate. It explains the flying prick but that still says nothing about what the hell is going on here. I’ve decided to shelter in place for now; luckily, I was able to find an abandoned tenement to wait out the day.  
  
The alley was wonderful at night, but I need to remember that the cops here have a bird’s eye view. I can see them now on the streets, the occasional car driving past the windows of the abandoned building. Most of them are the same black cars with white highlights that I used to see on old tv shows, but a few of them are a little more heavy-duty. Armoured vans painted a dark grey will occasionally pass me by, with PRT written on their side. The last two letters are probably Response Team, but the first is a mystery to me. Occasionally they’ll wander on foot as well, showing passers by a piece of paper. It’s probably a sketch of me, or a photo if they caught me on CCTV.  
  
The police here are weird. The ones from the PRT vans look like what I’m used to, armoured from head to toe and armed to the teeth, but the regular cops just have simple flack jackets and helmets, and some only have pistols. It’s the little things that hit hardest, the little differences that remind me just how far away I am. I’m at least fifty years, thousands of miles and an unknown number of universes away from home. Worse, I’m fifty years from Wes and Ivrina, and fifty years from any tech that’s even a little compatible with my wetware. Even if I find something using Affinity, I can’t exactly wire myself in. I was the fighter, that sort of tech stuff was always more Wes’s scene.  
  
Fuck. I can’t think about them right now. They’re well out of reach and I’ll only tear myself up if I dwell on it.  
  
I distract myself by watching the search, ducking back as I see that ‘superhero’ flying over the rooftops. If they’re smart, they’ll be checking all they alleyways within a few miles of that rooftop then moving on to the abandoned buildings. Not for the first time I consider just turning myself in, before deciding that I don’t trust the Americans not to lock me up somewhere. Perhaps they would see me as a ‘cape’ rather than a bioweapon, but the picture on the paper showed me that all these ‘superheroes’ still looked almost entirely human, even if they were all dressed like freaks.  
  
No, it seems I still need to hide. Moving during the day is out of the question, with so many eyes up and about. I guess I’ll just wait for nightfall before going prowling. They won’t give up the search at night, I certainly wouldn’t if there was a monster stalking my neighbourhood, but it’ll be easier to move unseen. I’m not hungry, but I know that won’t last. Khanivore wasn’t created with fuel efficiency in mind, and I’ll need a lot of protein just to fuel the trips to get food. Hopefully the city will have butchers or supermarkets I can raid, and hopefully meat will be a lot easier to find fifty years in the past. If I’d been stuck in a proper civilisation, then I’d be hard pressed to find any meat at all. Fuck soy.  
  
Only problem then becomes finding my way around. I’ve never been to Philadelphia - hell I’ve never been to America - and even if I had then my knowledge would be useless. I needed to spend tonight getting my bearings, memorising the area and possible places to find food. For a brief moment I think about leaving the city altogether. America has farms, right? I could rustle cattle and live on the open plains. The idea holds little appeal; I just don’t feel whole unless I’m surrounded by hundreds of miles of concrete and steel.  
  
I’d already explored the old building to my heart’s content, finding empty rooms with a mixture of old furniture, whatever the departing residents couldn’t be bothered to take with them. I’d dragged old sofas and matrasses into my flat, piling them together into a heap of musty comfort. It’s not the same sensation as floating in a suspension tank, but it is at least better than the floor. I had spent the entire night awake, too paranoid to risk sleep, and if I'm going to do the same tonight then I need to get some rest. It looks like the cops are leading their sweep away from this building, so now seems as good a time as any.  
  
It's dark when I wake up, a depressing new normal I'm going to have to get used to, and I pull myself off my comfortable heap. It seems like I am doomed to live a nocturnal lifestyle. At least Philadelphia has an interesting skyline at night. A quick glance out my window reveals streets that, while hardly empty, are a lot quieter than they were during the day. I can hear sirens, but they are distant. No doubt the police have better things to deal with than one loose monster. Looking at the paper, they have more than enough on their plate.  
  
It takes me a while to clamber up to the roof; these corridors weren’t exactly built for someone of my size and I can’t quite bring myself to scrape the last of the wallpaper off the walls, if only because it’ll stick to my arms. The stairwell is a little easier to navigate, though I ignore most of the stairs, until I found my way to the roof. I was anxious not to repeat yesterday’s mistake, so I poked my head out of the stairwell and looked from side to side. When no flying pricks descend from on high to cart me off to a lab, I step out onto the roof. The first thing I do is stretch myself to my fullest extent. They really didn’t build these buildings for someone twice as tall as a regular human, something I probably shouldn’t blame someone for but that won’t stop me.  
  
Philadelphia stretches out before me, rooftops ascending in height until they reach their peak at the city centre. Now that I know just how lost I am, I have a new appreciation for the city. It's clearly a product of its time, less than I'm used to but with a little simple elegance. That impression is only further heightened by the flashing sirens a few blocks away. Any city with enough shit going down to draw the bruiseboys away from the literal monster that roams their streets can’t be a bad thing. Once I have double checked that the police helicopters are flying towards the sirens, I set off at a run away from the noise, out into the endless metropolis.  
  
I leap from rooftop to rooftop, sprinting along on all fours and springing across the gaps with my tendrils. I was bioengineered for manoeuvrability, and the tailored muscles in my tendrils extended my reach significantly. The sensation of wind rushing against my flesh is intoxicating, and I begin to lose myself to the moment. Since transferring my consciousness to Khanivore, I have been stuck underground in fighting rings, or floating in a suspension tank, or waiting in the back of a lorry. It's liberating to be able to finally move, to finally push this body to the limit, under the open sky. It's almost enough to distract me from my self-appointed mission.  
  
As I run, I make note of corner shops, butchers and supermarkets. Anywhere that might have meat. I'm not hungry yet, and I don’t have anywhere to keep raw meat, so I limit myself to window shopping. The streets still freak me out; they are close enough to what I was used to - I never really found myself in the newer areas of a city - but there are enough differences to creep me out. I guess I'm running to distract myself from those differences, and it's almost working. My eyes are on my surroundings, assessing the city like I'm sizing up an opponent in the arena.  
  
It's this sense that leads me to spot the orange blur that's trying to keep itself out of my sight. The strange figure is moving on the edge of my vision, shadowing me as I leap from building for building. It can’t have been much larger than an average human, but it’s shadowing me stride for stride. Something’s off about its movements; it seems to be moving faster and more naturally than possible. It draws closer and closer to me, sticking to the shadows as much as possible, until we are both running along the same row of rooftops, separated by about five meters. The man, and it does appear to be a man, flashes me a cocky grin.  
  
I begin to slow my pace, confident that this anarcho-punk idiot isn’t a cop, before coming to a stop on the corner of two streets. It takes a while for me to arrest my momentum, and my clawed feet slide and scramble against the rooftop before coming to a stop. The shirtless orange boy stops effortlessly and in almost complete silence, before leaning up against the roof cupola. I drive a tendril into the wall beside him, wiping the cocky grin from his face, and lean in close with bared teeth and a menacing growl. His head looks to be about a third of the size of my own, and would easily fit in my mouth.  
  
“Whoa, whoa, hold it big guy!”  
  
He sounds nervous, apparently this isn’t going how he expected. I withdraw my tendril from the wall, noting with satisfaction that it had gone all the way through, before waving the razor-sharp spike of bone in his face. I put my best effort to creating a growl that told him to explain what the hell he wanted, but I wasn’t exactly used to using growls to communicate and it may have just come across as angry.  
  
“Look,” the orange boy began in obvious desperation, “I know you’re probably freaking the fuck out right now, but I can explain a few things.”  
  
‘Keep talking,’ I growled, or at least attempted to. He seemed to get the hint.  
  
“Listen, and feel free to interrupt if I’m missing the mark, I’m guessing you woke up in some shitty alley with no memory of how you got there or even who you are.”  
  
Two out of three's not bad. I grunt assent, willing to give the obvious nutcase a chance to talk.  
  
“I’m gonna assume that was you agreeing with me. Now, right now, I’m probably one of the only people in the world who knows what you’re going through.”  
  
He points to a tattoo on his bare chest, a letter U. I don’t get the meaning and tilt my head to demonstrate my confusion.  
  
“Holy shit, you are new.” He pauses for a few moments and I begin to reassess my decisions. “Okay, look, you’ve got this same tattoo on your chest.” I try to look and see for myself, but my neck simply doesn’t bend that way.  
  
“Now,” the boy continues, “every now and then people will run into someone like us with no memories, obvious mutations, powers and the same tattoo somewhere on our body. Normally people like us end up in custody, or squatting in abandoned buildings and fighting the PRT. I lived in a goddam sewer for a few months when I first woke up.”  
  
I bring my clawed hand up to his face, chuckling to myself at the difference in size, and rotate my wrist in the universal symbol for ‘hurry the fuck up.’  
  
“Me and my pal Gregor are part of a mercenary crew. We’re like you. If you want a way off the streets, out of a PRT cell and out of the hands of any of the wackos and serial killers out there, then come with me to meet the boss. Its better than the alternative. Trust me, I’ve lived the alternative and it fucking sucks. I used to hang out with rats and shit, now I hang out in a nightclub with a girl on each arm.”  
  
I takes a few seconds to mull over his offer, but it was a foregone conclusion from the start. I'm about as far away from my crew, from anything I've ever known, as it is possible to be. If this idiot’s boss can deliver even a basic standard of living then it's better then the streets. After a few more moments spent watching fear-sweat drip down the kid’s face, I nod my head.  
  
“Fuckin-a!” he exclaims, “I’d shake your hand but you’d trip the fuck out if I did, and this isn’t exactly the time or the place for that sort if thing. I’m Newter, by the way. It might be a bit early to say it, but I always like to be first in this sort of thing so what the hell.”  
  
“Welcome to Faultline’s Crew!”


	3. Discord: 1.03

Superheroes are bullshit.  
  
That’s the obvious conclusion. Here I am, the product of hundreds of thousands of euros and the best bioscience that you’ll find outside a top of the line Pharma corp, and I’m being outrun by an orange malchick with bright green hair. There’s something off about the way he moves, and not just in how he’s keeping pace with someone three times his size. It’s like he just skims the ground, touching it with a lot less force than you’d need to keep that sort of pace.  
  
I used to think of myself as fast. Other Beasties might be able to tank more hits than me, or hit a little harder, but that’s not what Khanivore was built for. I’m a slice-and-dicer, cutting away at the enemy with talons and tail-spikes while keeping just out of their reach the whole way, but whatever this kid’s on is enough to let him run rings around me.  
  
Actually, just what is he on? No biotech I know would let someone move like that, and certainly nothing with that much human DNA. It’s 2011, there’s no way anyone would be able to grow something even remotely like this ‘Newter’ and definitely nothing like that flying cock who jumped me yesterday. Of course, it could be some other bollocks. They’ve got superheroes here, actual spandex wearing idiots like from old films. Maybe he was cursed by a witch, or bitten by a radioactive orangutan and the fucking road runner.  
  
Whatever the result, I can tell he’s not even breaking a sweat as we power across the rooftops of Philadelphia. The city mostly seems to have shut for the night, with the streets beneath us now almost entirely empty. The only sounds that I can hear are the sounds of my feet scrabbling against the rooftops as we sprint on, or as I sprint at least. We’re moving parallel to the city centre, passing along rows of brick buildings like you’d see in any decent-sized metropolis. I made my living in places like this, the slums abandoned by the inner-city, where all a woman needed to survive was her wits, two talented bioengineers and a Beastie. It’s not quite at the same level as the outskirts of fair Birmingham, but it’s fast on the way.  
  
Or maybe it’s not. Maybe this world will be different. Maybe they’ve got some sunny fucking optimism that’ll keep all this afloat. Isn’t that what superheroes are all about?  
  
The orange git’s stopped now, he’s dropped into an alleyway. I leap in after him, not having anything better to do, descending the wall by splitting my tail and driving it in and out of the wall like I’m climbing down some stairs. It’s a trick I like to pull in the arena, makes me look in-control and plays well to the cameras. Fuck, maybe I’ve already got what it takes for this powers malarkey. Only difference is the superheroes have made the whole world their arena.  
  
“That was awesome! It’s like running alongside a freight train!”  
  
The kid’s slowed to a walk now, strolling down the alley with his hand behind his head like he hasn’t got a care in the world. I’d say he hasn’t even broken a sweat except he seems to be the greasiest fucker I’ve ever seen.  
  
“Trouble is, Faultline would be cross if we ran all the way back, and crossing the boss ain’t wise.”  
  
I just grunt as I pad alongside him on all fours. Let him find whatever meaning in it he wants. We pass through a few alleys that are pretty much the same as every alley I’ve seen so far. This is certainly some way to see America for the first time. Actually, where even is Philadelphia? I’m a bit chilly, so probably not the South, but that doesn’t exactly narrow it down. I guess it doesn’t really matter.  
  
Newter stops at the end of our little alleyway, climbing halfway up the wall in the blink of an eye before peering out into the street. It’s a smart move, anyone watching the road would be looking at ground level first. I can’t let myself get suckered into thinking he’s just an idiot. Last time I read someone wrong it ended up with my brains decorating the floor.  
  
“Alright, coast looks clear. That’s our hideout up ahead.”  
  
That had better be a bloody lie. There’s a pub on the other side of the road, and calling it a pub is me being generous. A run-down hole-in-the-wall type joint, with green paint so faded it’s more like polka dots. There’s half a sign over the door, announcing proudly that ‘Paddy’s Pub’ is open for business, and another sign on the door announcing that the building has been closed indefinitely for posing a risk to public health. It certainly isn’t a club full of sweet devotchkas.  
  
Some of my shock and anger at this betrayal musty have come across in a menacing growl as Newter gulps nervously, and his skin starts to look a little yellow.  
  
“It’s just a place to stay. We’re not locals, we’re just here for a job.”  
  
You live for now, little man. He gestures for me to wait here as he dashes across the street, again accelerating at a rate that simply shouldn’t be physically possible. A few raps on the door leads to a brief exchange of words with a bulky figure, as Newter gestures wildly in my general direction. Eventually he steps inside, and gestures for me to follow. I cross the street in a few loping bounds, putting on my best turn of speed as I cross the open space, before slowing as I approach the door because, unlike some people, I have to obey the laws of physics. Getting in is a pain, as I have to squeeze myself through the narrow wooden door, but eventually I find myself in a really shitty pub.  
  
In fairness, it does look like it’s been closed for a while, but even without the wear and tear it would still have been a dump. I guess beggars, and giant monsters, can’t be choosers. What really draws the eye about this place is the clientele, all three of them. There’s Newter, still as offensively fluorescent as ever, hanging off the ceiling for some reason. The next fellow is big in every way, wearing a pair of trousers, a suit jacket and nothing else. I can just about see his organs through his translucent skin, and there are shell-like growths scattered about his body. He really drew the short straw, but he doesn’t hold himself like he’s hard done by. That’s encouraging; if I’m going to work with these guys it’d be nice if they weren’t a walking bag of issues.  
  
Their leader is obvious, and not just because she’s flanked by the other two. Every inch of her skin is covered and yet something about her just screams hardened badass. It’s a look everyone tries to pull, but very few can master. It’s certainly not something I was ever able to get right. Apparently, I just looked lifeless, which is admittedly accurate. This ‘Faultline’ is dressed in what can only be described as mercenary chic. She’s wearing body armour, looks like older pattern Kevlar, and a heavy welding helmet over her face, but there’s scraps of cloth interwoven with the plates and running down her legs into some sort of dress-like outfit. It looks like it should restrict her legs, but the sides are slit all the way down and she’s wearing combat trousers underneath. She tilts her head slightly to one side as she looks me up and down and I catch a glimpse of a ponytail made of porcupine shards. I wonder if it’s natural or part of her getup.  
  
“I must admit,” she speaks after a while in a surprisingly soft voice, “I didn’t quite believe Newter when he said just how large you were.”  
  
I begin to chuckle, a frankly horrifying sound, before stopping as Faultline raised her hand.  
  
“Please, our fourth member needs her sleep.”  
  
Fourth member? I lean back onto my hind legs, changing my centre of mass with my tail until I could look over the three mercs. Sure enough, there’s a huddled figure at the end of the room. I can’s make out much beneath the duvet, but she looked rather small. A child? I’m not about to wake up any kids, so I settle back onto all fours and nod at the mercenary leader.  
  
“Thank you. I am Faultine, as I understand you know. Newter you have already met. This is Gregor the Snail.”  
  
Gregor's looking me up and down. I’ve been gawked at before, in both my first body and second, but this is something different. When I was piloting Sonnie, I got a lot of sad looks. People don’t like to see a woman with scars, and I sometimes felt like they could tell it wasn’t really me in there. Some people, people like Dicko, wouldn’t look at my scars with pity, instead their eyes would travel downwards as they thought in vivid detail about the wounds that broke me, and how they could take advantage of that. People looked at Khanivore with either awe or envy. Awe from the cheering crowds, and envy for those who wanted our creation for their own ends.  
  
Gregor’s look is none of those things. It's cold, almost clinical, and I can tell he's trying to honestly assess my strength. I’ve seen that look on very rare occasions, in the eyes of the best Beasties, the ones that gave me the most trouble, or on the occasional bioengineer Wes brought home. He's categorising me, assessing the potential benefits against the threat I pose, and that is something I can respect.  
  
“And our sleeping beauty in the back is Labyrinth.” Faultline finishes.  
  
“I know you’re probably confused right now, and not just by us. Newter said you can’t talk, is that correct?”  
  
A nod. It’s not like speech was on our list of priorities when we grew this body. I can’t even appeal to hindsight for that; none of us could have guessed I’d end up living in it and we certainly couldn’t have known I’d end up here.  
  
“Very well, I shall do my best to explain. You’re a Parahuman. It means you’ve undergone a traumatic event and emerged with superhuman abilities. Specifically, you’re what’s become known as a monstrous cape.”  
  
Gregor scoffs at that, and Newter offers an upside-down grin from his perch on the ceiling. Clearly that’s a sticking point, and it’s not hard to see why.  
  
“Don’t let the nickname fool you.” Faultline continued, “You’re as human as the rest of us. Your mutations don’t change that, they can’t change that.”  
  
Believe me, lady, if there’s anyone who understands that it’s me. It does make me think, however. Unlike Gregor and Newter, who simply don’t make sense at all, I know exactly what has gone into my body. Whatever they’re doing isn’t the same as bioengineering. Maybe they are humans with freaky powers, but then what does that make me? I’m just bits of a human brain mingling with bioelectric substitutes in a body made from the DNA of fuck knows how many different creatures, none of which are human.  
  
Faultline carries on talking well into the night, talking me through the United States, the PRT, Protectorate and anything else she thinks is relevant. Some of it is stuff I knew already, or had picked up from context, but a lot of the information is new. This world is a little more screwed than I first thought; fucking titans, mass murderers, mad scientists and some golden git goin' about doing whatever the fuck he damn well wants. At the end of it all, Faultline makes me an offer. She’s planning a job, something that’ll put her name on the map, and she wants to bring me in as an equal partner. A fifth of one-fifty kay sounds like a damn good deal to me, so I accept.  
  
It’s at this point that Faultline gives me a demonstration of trust. She takes off her helmet, exposing an attractive face that fixes me with a saurian grin. Funnily enough, the quill ponytail is a clip on. I should have picked up on that earlier, but I guess I’ve just decided to run with the weirdness. Tiredness begins to hit me, and as the other mercenaries slink off to their camp-cots I make my own way to the other end of the room.  
  
All of a sudden, I am struck with the enormity of my cock-up. Not five miles from here is a lovely pile of matrasses and cushions, whereas all there is here is shitty bar furniture that isn’t even padded and looks like it couldn’t stand up to a stiff breeze. What kind of pub doesn’t have any bloody sofas? Nothing for it, I just have to live with my errors. Khanivore’s neck doesn’t bend down like a human’s and the tail makes sleeping on my back impossible. All I can do is lie flat on my front with my head stretched out in front of me. It’s not elegant, and the length of my body puts my head right next to the sleeping darling, but I guess it’ll have to fucking do.  
  


  
In my sleep, I dream of my last moments on earth.  
  
I see a pretty girl in a golden dress looking up at me with hungry eyes, a predator recognising her own kind. She’s reaching out to touch me, but backs away as a second figure steps into view. It’s then I realise that I’m not watching this from my body, but from Khanivore. That’s me stepping into the trailer, that’s me chatting up Dicko’s bird like I’m some kind of fucking Casanova. I can’t hear a word I’m saying, suspended as I am in the tank, but I can remember them clear enough. I’m bringing her close to the tank now, showing her my true self and feeding off her fear as she jumps back in shock.  
  
I just want to reach through the glass and tell me to stop being such a fucking idiot. It’s such a pointless way to die, and it’s not like I’m getting anything out of the experience. There’re barely any working nerves left in that body; I stepped in some broken glass on the way to the arena and didn’t even notice until Ivrina spotted the trail of blood I’d left behind. I’m getting nothing from the sex, except for the idea of sex. I’m chasing ancient memories of old lovers and one-night stands, but there’s just nothing there anymore. I’m in here, separated from both of them by a tank of amniotic fluid and a pane of glass.  
  
The rest plays out much as I remember. An obvious deception, a gloating tyrant, and the hollow joys of revenge followed immediately by a sense of emptiness as I step over to look at what was once Sonnie. I’d call it the night of my death, but I died long before this. Back on the Estate.  
  
This was the point where the flash of orange had whisked me away, where my thoughts had been interrupted by a Philadelphia shower. That doesn’t happen this time. Instead I just stand there, the woman and the monster, wondering which of us is which.  
  
  
  
I wake slowly, reacting to a slight irritation on the side of my face. The point between my exoskeleton and my skin has an annoying tendency to become irritated if left in the open for too long, particularly the area beneath my crest. It’s just one in a long list of problems that I need to somehow solve in about a month, or I’ll be right fucked. This isn’t that tell-tale itch - not yet at least - instead its almost soothing. I risk a peek with my right eye, only to catch a little girl in the act of gently scratching and petting my skin.  
  
She’s young, almost too young to bear, and her long blond hair and honest smile speaks to me in whispers of childhood innocence. Some instinctive part of me wants to recoil from her touch, to slap her away and spring to my feet, but I refuse to act on those impulses. Those Estate cunts may have broken my body, but I’ll be damned if I let them rule my mind as well. Honestly? Her scratching is actually quite pleasant, and I’m happy to just lay still for a few more minutes. Who knows when I’ll next get the chance to relax?  
  
The sound of sizzling brings me back to life as Gregor announces the arrival of breakfast. I begin to haul myself up, only to pause as I see the girl, Labyrinth I think, still looking at me with almost glassy eyes. I gently nudge her with my arm and lift her onto my back, before carrying her like a noble steed for the entire five metres between us and the bar. I’m honestly not sure why I did it, but it's all worth it to hear the faint sound of giggling from above my head.  
  
Once Labyrinth dismounts, I pull myself up onto two feet, and accept a plate of bacon and eggs from Gregor. This is the first time I’ve eaten normal food as Khanivore, and the proportions seem off. On the other hand, it’s the first time in years that I’ve had taste buds capable of noticing bacon, and this very quickly becomes the best breakfast this world has ever seen. Even if the bacon is only the streaky kind Americans apparently like.  
  
Faultline leads Labyrinth off to the bathroom to wash and do her teeth, and Gregor leans in to me with a knowing smile on his face.  
  
“Thank you. Elle hasn’t been that lucid in quite some time.”  
  
A silent moment of understanding passes between the two of us, before he places an extra rasher of bacon on my plate. If I am stuck on this fucked-up planet, at least I won’t have to go it alone.


	4. Discord: 1.04

It’s funny, looking in the mirror and seeing a different face.  
  
The bathroom of ‘Paddy’s Pub’ is as shoddy as the rest of the place, but it still has most of a mirror. It’s a one-piece affair that runs all the way along the row of sinks, and it’s long enough that I can see myself in full. I’ve got nothing I haven’t seen before, obviously, but usually I’m looking at myself from the outside, from my old body. Usually Khanivore is shut up in the trailer while I’m wandering about in human form. I’d sometimes catch myself in the mirror, but it never felt like I was looking at me. Wes and Ivrina would disagree if they knew, but I never told them how I felt. They’d just waste time worrying about something that none of us could do anything about.  
  
They put me in this body, saved my damn life, and I wasn’t ever going to let them feel like they made the wrong choice.  
  
It’s a nice feeling to look into a mirror and see what you expect to see, to know that you’re looking back. One thing I didn’t expect to see, though I was warned, is the U etched into my chest. I’ve been branded, marked as the product of some fucking organisation. That hurts more than anything about being stuck here, that takes away from the thrill of finally being free to walk around in my own body. Without really thinking, I move my clawed hands up to scratch it away before stopping myself. If it could be removed then the others would have done so, and I really can’t risk injuring myself for no good reason.  
  
What hurts worse is that they’re taking credit for something we did. Khanivore was our life’s work, a labour of fucking love, and now everyone’s going to think I was made by some fucking amateurs who can just cheat their way past the laws of nature and biology. I wonder if Newter and Gregor are the same; were they someone else’s work snatched away and mind wiped? Somehow, I doubt it. They’re Parahumans, like the others, which means they play fiddlesticks with the laws of nature. I don’t. Besides, I still have my memory.  
  
Should I tell them? I’m going to be putting my life in their hands, and not just because we’ll be going into fights together. I hate to think about it, but I can’t survive on my own. I can’t shop for food or take a stroll down the street, and this body will begin to fail within a few weeks at least. My only hope is that they can put me in touch with some bullshit parahuman who can either break through the rules of biology or whip up some suspension fluid fifty years more advanced than current level tech.  
  
For now, I make do with a hose attached to a tap in the corner of the filthy bathroom. It’ll stop my skin drying out for the next few hours, but not much more than that. It was a bloody genius idea at the time to make Khanivore with Octopus DNA, but it’s really come back to bite me in the arse. Faultline’s crew have given me some space, and I appreciate it. It’s not like I’m ashamed or anything, I used to run about in front of hundreds of people in this body, but I really don’t like letting others see just how reliant I am on outside help.  
  
Maybe I won’t tell them, not yet at least. Let’s get through this job first; nothing reveals a person’s true nature quite like a bit of the old ultraviolence.  
  
I shake off the excess water, feeling like a beaten dog as I do so, before stepping out of the bathroom and into the bar itself. Faultline is there, as are the rest of the Crew, standing in front of a table on which she’s spread out a map of the city, as well as a bunch of photographs. She looks up as I step out of the bathroom, her face firm but not harsh. This is Faultline the professional, which means it’s time to get serious.  
  
“You’ll need a name,” she remarks to me, “but don’t think about it right now. A name is something that will stick with you for the rest of your life, and you should be sure before you choose it.”  
  
How right you are, madam Faultline. Who am I, Sonnie or Khanivore? Better not to dwell on it right now. Down that road, madness lies.  
  
“However, we are going into battle and we can’t just shout ‘hey you’ every time we need your attention. So, how does ‘White’ sound, as a purely temporary measure.”  
  
Works for me, and it plays off my best features. I nod my head.  
  
“Good. Here’s the job.” She points to a spot on the map. It’s been a while since I read a paper map, hell, since anyone, but I follow along easily enough.  
  
“This is the field office of the FBI in Philadelphia. Our client, who will always remain nameless in our jobs, is currently under investigation by the FBI for breaking the embargo on the CUI.”  
  
I tilt my head in an unspoken question. Fortunately, she gets the message.  
  
“The Chinese Union-Imperial is a foreign nation, and not relevant to our job. The Federal Bureau of Investigation is a law enforcement agency. We’ve been hired to raid their building and copy their server files, specifically their ongoing investigations database. We will deliver that information to our client, so that they can burn their compromised assets and avoid prosecution. We’re taking all the data, so as to not reveal our client’s identity to the FBI.”  
  
Makes sense. Corporate espionage was never my scene, but there were always a few shady types hanging about at the fights who just loved to boast about their jobs over a few drinks.  
  
“Normally a hit on a government building would bring the PRT down on us like rats, but they shouldn’t bother us until the FBI gives up the chase.”  
  
Now that doesn’t make sense. Everyone knows that if you fuck with one millicent group, you fuck with all of them. This time I let out a small growl, part of a test to see if I can make myself sound curious. Faultline smiles discretely, clearly this is part of the plan she’s proud of.  
  
“The Federal Bureau of Investigations and the Parahuman Response Team are both federal law enforcement agencies, and there’s a lot of bad blood between the PRT and the rest of the feds. Most law enforcement agencies believe the PRT has gotten too big; its budget is nearly equal to all the other agencies combined. This is because they’re responsible for _all_ Parahuman crimes, no matter how big or how small. The PRT recently claimed jurisdiction over the Teeth, freezing out the ATF, and over Accord’s operation in Boston, freezing out the FBI. Not to mention how many domestic terror groups are now led by Parahumans.”  
  
“The feds think the PRT is looking to become the sole law enforcement agency in the United States, and the PRT aren’t doing anything to stop that impression. So, the other agencies have banded together in protest, agreeing not to cooperate with the PRT. What this means for us is that the FBI will try to stop us themselves, before reporting us to the PRT. They’ll have to tell them eventually, their pride isn’t worth losing the data, but we should be able to get out of the building well before that happens.”  
  
It’s good that she’s thought this through. This jargon is all Greek to me, but I understand the gist of it. The PRT have been stepping on too many toes, and these ‘feds’ are willing to put themselves at risk for the sake of their pride.  
  
“The plan, therefore, is to enter as quietly as we can so that we don’t draw too much attention. Once inside, we move quickly through the building to the server room, using these blueprints our client bought from the Dragonslayers.”  
  
Don’t know who they are but I don’t really need to. An information broker is an information broker.  
  
“We transfer the server data onto this hard drive,” she patted a small box with a carrying handle, “it’s tinker made, with more than enough room to spare.”  
  
Now that’s interesting. Another grunt, another demand for an explanation.  
  
“Tinkers are parahumans who can create technology well in advance of our current standards. The only downside is the need for regular maintenance, but the hard drive should hold up long enough for us to get it to the client.”  
  
Bingo.  
  
“Once we’re inside, expect armed resistance. Most of the agents will be unarmed, but they will have firearms teams on-site. They will be trying to kill you, they don’t have the same nonlethal options as the PRT, but under no circumstances are you to kill them. You kill a federal agent and the whole country will come down on our heads.”  
  
Horrorshow. I’ve always wondered how well my exoskeleton would hold up against gunfire. Hopefully the ammo here is less powerful than I’m used to. Not like they’ve ever had to take out a Beastie before.  
  
“You and Gregor will be taking point, Newter says you’re tough.”  
  
“Absolutely. He put his tail through a concrete wall, and I think the rebar as well. Dude’s badass.”  
  
Right. That needs to stop right fucking now. I fix Newter with my most piercing stare, and separate my tail, bringing a razor-point close to his face.  
  
“What the hell bro?” Newter scampers back, and Gregor begins to chuckle and mutter to himself in a strange language.  
  
“I think you should apologise to the nice young lady.” His voice its usual dry sound, but I think I can hear the slightest sounds of amusement.  
  
Newter looks at me again, as if he’s working through an impossible puzzle, before apparently working out the answer as his eyes widened a touch.  
  
“Right, sorry miss.”  
  
Faultine’s face is deadpan, but her lips have ever-so-slightly curled up into a smile.  
  
“Good. Newter will be moving ahead of us; he’s best at ambushes and his sweat induces psychedelic effects.”  
  
Hard to imagine him being stealthy, but I guess trippy sweat helps. If I wasn’t already high on escapism, I’d consider what he’s selling.  
  
“If you encounter difficulties at significant range, then step back and let Gregor deal with it. He can project substances through his skin, including an anaesthetic gas.”  
  
The big guy nods to me. His appearance is still unsettling but I force myself to meet his gaze. I’m no-one to talk about odd looks.  
  
“Myself and Labyrinth will be moving behind you. I can cut through nonorganic materials at a touch, so I’ll collapse any corridor with too much resistance.”  
  
Half of that made sense, but why the hell are we bringing the kisa? My confusion must have come through, because Faultline looks over to the girl, who’s currently off in a world of her own, and explains.  
  
“Labyrinth is our way in. She can alter reality in a radius around her. Her radius increases the longer she stays in one place. Gregor and Newter will disguise themselves as workmen until Labyrinth can make us a door through.”  
  
What? Trippy sweat I get, an internal chemical plant I get. Hell, I can even accept invisible knives but she straight up alters reality? This is some wizard crap. Netwer’s drinking in my confusion like fine wine.  
“First rule of Parahumans. Powers are bullshit.”  
  
“Once we’ve made it to the server room, I’ll wire in the hard drive and transfer the data. Shouldn’t take more than a minute. Then we fight our way back out, find a patch of wall near our exit vehicle, and wait for Labyrinth to make us another door. If everything goes to plan, we should be able to make a clean getaway.”  
  
If everything goes to plan.  
  
“This last stage is when we’re most likely to encounter the PRT. If the FBI contacts Philadelphia Police then they’ll tell the PRT the moment they spot we have powers. Put simply, the Police aren’t paid enough to deal with us. We leave in three hours”  
  
  
  
Every fighter prepares for the match in their own way. Some spend their time in noise and hedonism, speedballing steroids and amphetamines to whip themselves up into a berserk rage. Some ignore the fight, chatting with their mates and going about their day like nothing’s happening, so they can go in with a clear head. There are as many prep methods as there are fighters, and nobody can say for sure which ones work best.  
  
I never went in for that sort of thing. Ever since I got my edge, I’ve always been more distant. Everything seemed like so much less than it used to be. I couldn’t feel the wind against my face or smell the stench of petrol that followed us around like a bad hangover. I was famous. The unbeaten Predator. People knew my name from Orkney to Cornwall, and we moved about the country surrounded by flocks of groupies. The rest of the team were ecstatic; we were the rising stars in a movement that was about to go mainstream, and the entire world was at our fingertips.  
  
But to go back, to feel everything I’d lost, would have been worth any cost.  
  
I spent the time before fights in much the same way I’d have spent all my time, if I wasn’t surrounded by friends and their well-meaning concern. I’d find a quiet place, sit down, and just wait. I’d tell people it was because I was getting proper zen about things, but, in all honesty, I think I just wanted to pretend I wasn’t there. It got easier as time went on. Not piloting my old body, that was child’s play from week one, but distancing myself from it, from reality, until all that mattered was those glorious few minutes where the world itself felt like it was at my fingertips.  
  
In a way, it’s much the same now. I’m still surrounded by a team of people getting ready for a fight. Gregor and Faultline are moving about like the Predators used to, except they’re checking over grenades and armour rather than marshalling a dozen roadies. We’d never been criminals, the fights drew in too much streaming revenue for that, but the scene always had that exotic air of illegality to it. It doesn’t take much effort to slip into this overt illegality. The fight is different, I’ll need to hold back in ways I never have before, but the arena is still the same.  
  
What’s different is that my mind and body are one. I’m not pretending to be somebody else anymore. I used to tell people I was getting into a zen mood when I distanced myself from the fight, but this time I mean it. I am a whole person now, and Faultline’s crew know me for who I am. That’s something I didn’t even have in the Predators. If I ever told them just how much I slipped, how much more alive I felt in the ring that when we were touring boozers, then they’d never have forgiven themselves for what they did to Sonnie. They could never understand, but to the Crew I’ve always been this way. I’m more zen now that I’ve ever been.  
  
  
  
It takes longer for us to get to the stage this time. The formula is the same in every arena I’ve ever fought in. The fighters would walk down a short corridor, flanked on either side by our crews, and step out onto the stage above the arena itself. My team always got a lot more out of it than I did, and I put in the effort for their sake. I didn’t need to be seen, I could just as easily control Khanivore from the wings, but the Predators were more than just me, and the others deserved their time in the limelight. They loved it, especially Ivrina. She was always beautiful, and she liked to be seen being beautiful. Her body was a masterwork of tattoos, set to glow under blacklights to reveal a stylised skeleton. The audience loved her, and she loved them.  
  
This arena is different. We can’t be seen as we approach, and the audience don’t know they’re participating. We’re travelling in the back of a Ford Transit, a vehicle so universal even I recognise it, done up to look like gas contractors. Gregor and Newter are dressed up in high-vis jackets and respirators, while Faultine is in her full mercenary chic and Labyrinth, the poor girl, is dolled up in green robes with a full-face ballistic mask. There’s a maze printed onto it in shades of green, one that hides her face, but I can still tell she’s spacing out.  
  
I am not wearing a mask.  
  
Between myself and Gregor, the back of the van is almost entirely full and I know it must be sitting low to the ground. At least Gregor’s up in the front, and I’d rather have him driving than Newter. My head is low, so as not to give the game away, but I can see the buildings rising higher through the front windows. So this is a city centre, before the heat-shimmer, the domes and the skytowers. It’s almost quaint. There’s a lot more greenery about, and some old stone buildings that are in quite good nick. We pull up besides the brown side of one building, whose windows are tinted in the fuck off style, and the two ‘gas workers’ step outside.  
  
Nobody questions them as they start levering a manhole off the floor and set up orange poles, or when they discretely open the van’s sliding door to let Labyrinth out. The door's on the wrong side, which is a bit of a mindfuck, but then I remember where I am. Nobody bothers us. It’s the unique effect of a high-vis jacket; anyone wearing one becomes part of the scenery, to be ignored like the sewage pipes that run beneath the pavement. People don’t need to know how a city works, just that it does.  
  
After a time, Labyrinth’s touch starts to spread across the wall. It has to be the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen. The smooth panelling twists and turns into decrepit brickwork, and a door slowly starts to creep across the wall as her power asserts itself. What kind of force could give a little girl the power to overwrite reality? The door is rusted iron, and built like a cell with a small hatch so that the guards can spit on the prisoners. It’s terrifying. What the hell is something like this doing inside her head?  
  
I don’t have time to dwell on the implications as Gregor and Newter shed their disguises, and Faultline leaps out of the van like she’s storming the beaches at Normandy. She opens the door into a nondescript corridor, and I follow shortly behind. It takes some will just to cross through the door; I have to overrule the small part of my mind that insists it isn’t there. As Labyrinth steps through and away from our entrance, reality reasserts itself and we’re left stuck inside this new Arena.


	5. Discord: 1.05

There are no sirens to sound our approach, no dazzling lights or the roar of the crowd. We stepped into this place like ghosts, and like ghosts we pass through its halls. Despite that, adrenaline is pumping through my veins like never before. If the fear of death gave me my edge in the arena, then that fear is magnified tenfold now that I’m here, gearing up to fight real people. These barren corridors might not be what I’m used to, but the air is thick with the coming battle. The rest of the Crew feels it too; even Newter’s stopped pissing about, instead stalking ahead of us on all fours.  
  
We must be quite the sight, myself and Gregor, as we stride down the corridor side by side. A giant of a man, and a monster made real on all fours, closely followed by Faultline, who’s so larger than life that she practically towers over us, and the diminutive Labyrinth, who is just downright creepy. I feel like I can take on the world.  
  
We haven’t been challenged yet; Faultline explained that they only have cameras at the entrances and exits, to preserve their secrets, so we won’t be noticed unless someone sees us in person. That’s why we came in during the early afternoon; when all the wage-slaves are stuck in their cubicles. I catch glimpses of them through small windows on the doors that line the corridor, before Gregor gums them together with an adhesive secreted from his finger. Rooms of suits hunched over desks, isolated from each other by endless rows of cubicles or working together in small groups. It’s a world I’ve never seen; I jumped headfirst into teenage rebellion and never looked back.  
  
Our luck can’t hold forever, and soon a suited woman rounds the corner ahead of us. Without a word of command, Newter rockets ahead with an impossible burst of speed, slamming the unfortunate suit into the ground with his hand clasped tight over her mouth. The rest of us move forward as her eyes roll back into her head and Newters drugs take effect. We don’t bother to hide her unconscious body; she’s not coming down for a while, no matter what they do, and we’ll be going loud soon anyway. Sure enough, we’ve not gone another thirty metres before a short alarm sounds and a woman’s voice comes across over the PA.  
  
“All personnel, intruders have been sighted inside the building. Security teams radio in, all others shelter in place.”  
  
We’ve kicked the ant hive, now we’ll see if they’re prepared to defend it. We don’t change how we act; we don’t gear up for battle or drop into a fighting stance or any of that bollocks. The lesson I learned from nineteen different fights, and it seems Faultline’s crew have learned it as well, is that you have to be ready for a fight from the moment you get in sight of the arena. If you don’t give everything you have to the fight, then you lose. That’s my edge, and it’s why we’ll brush through these feds like a scythe through a field.  
  
There’re a thousand different things that put us above them. We’re prepared for this; we poured over blueprints and maps, scheming and strategizing for hours. They’re surprised; we’ve invaded their home in defiance of all sense and reason, they won’t know what to expect. But the main edge we have is simple. They’re only human, and we’re not. Sure, Faultline and Gregor might have been quick to reassure me that I’m still human, but that’s not true in the ways that really matter.  
  
I’m stronger than a human, I’m taller, faster and more flexible. I don’t feel pain like a human and I can control the release of souped up hormones to pushed me beyond my limits. There’s not a scrap of human DNA in me, just a few strips of salvaged grey matter in place of bioware processors. These Parahumans are even further above me. The don’t have to obey the square cube rule, or consume sixteen thousand calories per day. They move faster than is physically possible, slice through the air with a look, turn their body into a chemical generator on the fly or simply ignore reality in favour of their own vision of reality.  
  
This Edge comes into play the moment we first stumble across our prey. These feds might value their secrets, but perhaps they should consider some cameras. We hit a squad from behind as they’re moving off in the opposite direction, completely oblivious to the viper in their midst. Newter brings the first down without anyone even noticing, moving unnaturally silently, as I pick up speed in a charge down the hall. The feds are dressed in body armour that looks out of date to me, but perhaps that’s a bit unfair, and their rifles look dangerous enough.  
  
Most people would run, but the fight-or-flight instinct gets a little unbalanced when you’re holding a gun. I remember this Razorgirl I slept with once, a dangerous piece of arse if ever there was one, geneered up the wazoo with subcutaneous nanoscales and great spikes of bone concealed within her forearms. She told me that men change when they’re holding a gun, that it makes them more irrational than a man with a knife. When someone stabs her, she told me as I played my fingers across her back, they usually run when the knife doesn’t break the skin, but a man with a gun will keep firing long after his weapon’s shown to be firing blanks.  
  
There’s about ten metres between me and the nearest Fed, maybe enough space for them to duck into a side room, but instead they shoot. I shut my eyes and lower my head to the earth, trusting my armoured exoskeleton to catch the worst of the shots. I only have to endure their fire for a few seconds, but I can feel the bullets scraping against my bone with dull impacts. We’d never tested Khanivore against bullets, no real need to, but it’s nice to know that our work can stand up against these primitive lead shots.  
  
It only takes a second for me to close the distance, though I’m still not as fast as Netwer’s near instant movement, and rather than opening my eyes and fighting I simply keep going. I stop when the uneven surface gives way to smooth flooring, and turn my head to see Newter wiping his greasy fingers all over the team of armed bruiseboys I just trampled. Faultline and Gregor are as expressionless as ever, but Newter’s lunatic grin looks like it’s about to fly off his face. He stays behind to finish doping up the groaning figures, while Faultline and Gregor simply step around the bodies. Labyrinth follows a pace behind Faultline, gingerly stepping over the still moving forms.  
  
We haven’t gotten far when a familiar orange blur shoots past us to take point again, this time wearing a pilfered headset. For all his nutjob ways, Newter apparently knows how to be professional when he needs to be. He rarely uses the floor, switching between the walls and ceiling as the mood takes him, and flits from place to place with bursts of his bullshit speed. He’s our scout, driving us away from the largest concentration of enemies and directing Faultline to collapse certain corridors.  
  
Faultline’s power is as terrifying as it is impossible. With the lightest of touches, she can send cracks through any surface, shattering through steel and concrete. Right now, she’s scoring crosses into the ceiling to collapse the floor above, blocking off certain corridors. She’s not even using any visible weapons to do it, just caressing her fingertips against the walls, or sending crackling lines of shattered masonry from her feet. The whole crew, myself included, are moving like a well-oiled machine.  
  
Eventually, our wanderings bring us to our destination. The door is identical to every other door in this bloody place, but there’s a small plaque drilled into the wood that reads ‘server room, no unauthorized access’. There are many ways we could enter. Faultine could cut the door in two, Gregor could concoct some strong acid and melt through the lock or Newter could hunt around for a key. Instead I move up to the door, leaning back onto two legs and placing my right hand against the wall, and simply slam my crest into the lock.  
  
We never really went in for horns, they provide an easy handhold for other Beasties, but the smooth spike that runs along the length of my head saved my life against Turboraptor, and it splits apart the door like an axe through wood. The remaining bits are ripped out of the frame by my hand, and I gestured with the other arm like a hotel dogsbody ushering in an honoured guest. Faultline nods in thanks and steps into the server room as me and Gregor keep watch. What little I can see of the room looks nothing like the intricate computer stacks Wes was so proud of; everything here’s a lot more rugged looking.  
  
Faultline’s back out in less than sixty seconds, swinging the bulky hard-drive onto her back with the aid of a sling. This would be the difficult bit; fighting our way back out. Newter's still listening to the radio, and pulls us up before a large set of double doors.  
  
“They’ve got an ambush through here. It’s a short hall with a balcony on either side. One squad on each balcony. How do you wanna play it, boss?”  
  
Faultline looks up at me, an unspoked question on her lips. I rap an armoured fist twice against my breastbone, and hold up a single finger. My mouth opens in bloody anticipation and the small antennae on my head flared outwards in an involuntary action. She simply nods in return.  
  
“White, you take the balcony on the right. I’ll handle the one on the left. Breach in three… two… one!”  
  
Another blow, another door downed. That’s the real purpose of my crest, more than the spike at the end. It’s like a helmet with a guard that runs down the length of my face; it lets me tank hits to my face that I’d have otherwise avoided. I hear a crash off to the left of me, but that’s not my concern. Instead I split my tail and use it to catapult myself into the air. The spikes of bone drive into the floor with ease, and I ascend half again as high as my natural height. The four tendrils are usually concealed within my tail, and I can see a look on the Fed’s faces that I haven’t seen since we first revealed this little trick.  
  
Fear. Abject fucking terror. I drink it in even as they leave my field of view.  
  
I land with a tremendous crash, gripping two helmeted heads in my taloned feet and bringing them down to earth. I spin right, as my tail reforms into one thick limb that slams four of the feds against the wall. That leaves one bastard in front of me, his gun held loosely in his arms as he shits himself in fear. I have moments before that fear kicks him into action, but moments are all I need as I snatch the rifle out of his hands, snapping it in two with my own, and bowl him off the balcony using my head as a blunt instrument.  
  
He’ll live, probably.  
  
With a graceful vault, and a quartet of coiling tendrils to slow my fall, I descend back to earth, noting that Faultline had simply collapsed the other balcony entirely. We book it out of there before the millicents get their bearings back, and Gregor spits out a globule of custard-looking paste that evaporates into an anaesthetic gas. Good night sweet bitches, and may flights of Beasties sing thee to thy rest.  
  
We’re abandoning all pretence of subtlety. Gunfire shoots out at us from unexpected corners, only to cease within moments as Faultline simply collapses the corridor. We’re tearing our way through the building like a bull in a china shop, and our enemy are responding in kind. They’ve brought out the big guns now, grenades and armour-piercing rounds, but we return fire with flashbangs. It doesn’t feel right to fight an enemy that’s so determined to kill me, without trying to kill them in return. The balance has shifted; now their fear is their edge. It’s the reverse of how it was in the arena. The other Baiters weren’t trying to kill me, it was just a game to them, while I was always fighting for my life.  
  
Eventually our damage manages to distance us from the fight, and we return to the same blank wall we entered from. The feds can’t get to us here, not without taking a much longer route, but we still have to wait the couple of minutes it takes Labyrinth to make us an exit. Those two minutes stretch into an eternity. I’ve never waited this long in the middle of combat before, and the adrenaline is still pumping through my system like I’m in a fast-paced arena match. I consciously enact my will on the modified bioprocessors that link my mind to my body, slowing my heartrate and reducing the risk of cardiac arrest.  
  
Even eternity ends, and soon we’re all piling out through a rickety wooden door and into the still-open door of our waiting van. Gregor leaps into the driver’s seat while the rest of us clamber through the side door, Newter crawling along the ceiling before settling into the front passenger seat. I pick up Labyrinth as I leave, leaping into the van which rocks as I land, and set her down onto one of the vehicles few rear seats. Faultline steps in as Gregor sets off, and pulls the large door shut as the van drives off into the city.  
  
Behind us, the building shows no sign of the pitched gunfights or wild destruction that had occurred within, and no vehicles drive out in pursuit. I duck down as low as I can, only able to see the blue sky far above us, as we drive through the city streets. The van is dead silent, everyone’s still on edge and waiting to see if we’ve been made. For a few wonderful moments I delude myself into thinking we’ve got away, when the all-to-familiar wail of sirens sounds behind us. Gregor chances a glance into his mirror before speaking in his usual, matter-of-fact, tone.  
  
“Local police, two of them, pulling up behind us.”  
  
“How far?” Faultline’s tone is a masterwork of professional unconcern.  
  
“The nearest car is four yards directly behind us, the other is off to the side and another six yards back.”  
  
What the fuck’s a yard?  
  
“White, bring down the closer vehicle.”  
  
Faultline steps over me to the rear of the van, and I cotton on as she twists the rear door handle. It takes some effort to turn myself around, this van isn’t exactly spacious by my standards, but I manage to lever myself around and separate my tail into its tendrils, holding the point of each by the doors, ready to strike.  
  
Faultline twists the handle and the doors fly open as they’re caught in the wind. She sits at the edge of the van, the heel of her boot scraping against the asphalt. Turns out four yards is pretty fucking close. I can make out every feature on the two millicents in the black and white car, including the familiar signs of fear on their face. Before they have a chance to react, I send my spiked tendrils shooting forwards with near-pneumatic force, driving them over and over into the car’s engine block. Beasties aren’t allowed to contain mechanical components, but that doesn’t exactly matter when bitek bone can be grown to the toughness of most any metal.  
  
I can feel the moving parts of the engine through the bone, scraping against the surface as they began to shake out of place. I think I cut the fan-belt, but the real damage was done to the pistons. The police jar judders and slows, spraying fluid and shards of metal across the road. Faultline is more direct with her car, and I laugh as I see it plunge into the sewers as very road itself cracks open, the rear end sticking out of the pit like the titanic.  
  
In the background, the sirens begin to disappear until silencing entirely, but none of us are naive enough to let our guard down quite yet. Gregor and Newter are scanning the roads, while me and Faultline are braced in the back like tightly-coiled springs. Only Labyrinth is out of it, staring straight ahead, and completely unreadable beneath her ballistic mask.  
  
However, all the wariness and intuition in the world can’t prepare you for the unexpected. There’s a tremendous crack in the distance, going almost unheard, before the van drops to the left as a horrific impact runs along our wheels and chassis. The air is filled with the sound of screaming metal and we slide along the earth for a few horrifying moments before a second impact sends the van tumbling and crashing into the pavement.


	6. Discord: 1.06

The moment I feel the wheels sheer off the side of our van, I reach into myself and fire off specific sets of neurons. Baiters have far greater control over a Beastie than our own bodies, even those without my unique conditions. The random flows of adrenaline and hormones that govern the human body are far too unpredictable for our fast-paced fights, and conventionally available hormones wouldn’t have enough time to go into effect. Our bodies are masterpieces of compartmentalisation, capable of closing off whole arteries in an instant, to prevent blood loss, and traced through with redundant nerves and muscle groups to prevent even the most minor paralysis.  
  
Most of these functions are handled automatically, biological computers taking the place of human instinct and chemical reactions, but bioware processors allow us to overwrite those artificial instincts, enforcing our will upon our bodies in the way that even the most zen spiritualist can only dream of. With a thought, I send a signal shooting through the cluster of artificial grey matter that regulates a certain set of glands, dispersed throughout my body. These glands have no analogues in nature, and generate chemical concoctions never before seen on this world.  
  
With a thought, I trigger the release of the geneered hormones produced by just one of these organs; a stimulant cocktail that races through my nervous system like fire. Ice cold heat fills my synapses, firing them off a fraction faster than they would naturally. The stimulant cocktail this gland generates is a Class-A drug called Slo-Mo, and illegal for humans to possess, but lower-budget Baiter teams often made use of it to bring their Beastie’s nervous system up to the same speed as their human one. It’s not possession if it’s generated biologically and used within the same body.  
  
Time doesn’t slow as the drug courses through me, but my brain accelerates, identifying and coordinating information at a much faster rate. Withdrawal will hit me hard, and this time I can’t divert my attention to a second body, but the benefits are immediately apparent. Rather than panicking, nature’s own feeble attempt at achieving the same result, my thought become clear and rational. When the van is suddenly jerked by a second impact, beginning to flip uncontrollably, I am not shocked. Instead I loosen my muscles and watch the Crew react.  
  
Gregor simply chooses not to move, fighting to keep the vehicle under control until the end and trusting in his parahuman body to take the brunt of the impact. It is a display of near-superhuman courage. Newter leaps out of the passenger window as it passes over his head, diving through a shower of shattered glass. At first it seems like cowardice, but somebody needs to be steady on their feet and if he hit any of the other passengers then they’d be out for the count.  
  
Faultline anchors herself amongst the passenger seats, but I can see her attention is split between herself and Labyrinth. The kisa is still staring straight ahead, completely zoned out, and her seatbelt isn’t on. My mind moves faster than I can think, and I propel myself across the miniscule distance between me and the girl, using the roll of the van to guide my leap. I scoop her up in my arms and cocoon her against my chest, wrapping my tail around her to cushion the blow even at the cost of my own safety.  
  
The van collides against something, catching the vehicle on the roof which crumples and tears. My back takes most of the blow, but my internal and external skeleton hold steady. Beastie fights are slash-and-tear affairs precisely because we’re very good at taking a regular pummelling. The rear doors of the van were blown off in the crash, and I can see the sunny light of the afternoon through the open door. Clutching my precious burden close to my chest, I stagger out of the van as my body burns away the last of the stimulant, and set my precious burden down.  
  
“Well, well, well. What do we have h…”  
  
Whatever he was about to say dies in his throat as he sees the sweet little kisa lying on the street. The kisa they might have killed. I can’t see if her eyes are open, useless bloody masks, so I put a hand against her chest, as gently as I can manage. I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding in as I feel the slight resistance of her rising chest against my hand. I can see Faultline step into my peripheral vision, looking none the worse for wear in spite of our little tumble, closely followed by Gregor and Newter. As Labyrinth moves up to sit cross-legged on the pavement, I allow my head to drift up to our enemy.  
  
Two men, one standing and one flying. The standing man is one I recognise, thanks to Faultline talking me through the local colour, as Chevalier, Bobby big-dick of the local Protectorate. Or maybe not; the massive meat-cleaver in his arms has to be compensating for something, after all. He’s dressed from head to toe in armour that looks like some sci-fi knight, and he’s holding a sword so large it looks like it must weigh as much as him. That he’s holding it in one hand only further cements my belief that parahumans are all cheating bastards.  
  
The other fellow I don’t know. He’s pretty much the exact opposite of the cyber-knight, dressed in brown robes and sporting a beard. By the way he’s standing in mid-air like it was solid ground, I assume that he’s yet another flying prick like the guy from the rooftops.  
  
“Myrrdin,” Faultline whispers in my ear as she steps up to the head of our crew, “ranged attacks. Can banish opponents.”  
  
The fuck does that mean? Even if I could voice my question there’d be no time; Faultine’s already moved past me. I shift my weight in front of Labyrinth, shielding her from the trigger-happy hero. In all fairness to them, they do look a bit regretful over how they almost killed a kid. Chevalier’s face is hidden, but his posture is a bit more slumped now. Myrrdin’s face is deep in shadow, but his jaw is clenched tightly. Part of me wonders why we haven’t started fighting yet, but then I remember that the capes have made the whole world their arena, and this is just a bit of pre-match posturing.  
  
“Faultline,” Chevalier seemed to come back to his senses, “so nice of you to return. I missed your last visit to my fair city. What’s wrong? Wasn’t one kidnapping enough?”  
  
He’s glaring at Labyrinth through his armour, and his grip is tightening on his sword. Faultline laughed, an easy, confident sound aimed to show contempt for her foe.  
  
“Kidnapping? Labyrinth asked to come with us, and I was all-too happy to oblige. They were using her as a tool to keep Burnscar under control, Chevalier. Little miss Slaughterhouse herself.”  
  
The flying man, Myrrdin, speaks up for the first time, in a calm and level voice.  
  
“Young lady,” at first I think he’s looking at me, but then I realise that at his height he can look over me to Labyrinth, “I know it must have been difficult in the asylum, but they really did want to help you. You don’t have to stay on the run.”  
  
Faultline’s silent, and I’m happy to follow her lead. I had been wondering how Labyrinth joined up with this crew of misfits, and I’m not about to stop her if she wants to leave. The first rule of fighting is to never take your eyes off the enemy, but I can’t stop myself from turning my head to look at the waif of a girl, still sitting cross-legged on the tarmac. Her face is unreadable behind the ballistic mask, but I suspect her real face would have been just as blank. There’s an indescribably tension in the air as both sides wait for her word. If she wants out, and Faultline says no, then I need to be ready to fight.  
  
When she does speak, her voice is so quiet that for a moment I think nobody except me could have heard it.  
  
“I’m happy here. I have a family.”  
  
My heart breaks all over again as she echoes the thoughts I didn’t know I’d been having. I had loved the Predators, and I know they loved me back, but they’d never really understood me. They saw me as a tragedy, growing remote and distant, and thought the way around that was to live even harder. They were living, really living, while I was just stuck in a shell, looking out at the world through an affinity neuron symbiont they dragged along for the ride. They’d cheer as I pulled some bird for the night, bring me in to boozers for shot after shot after shot, but they never understood that I wasn’t really in there anymore. I was in the back of our lorry.  
  
It wasn’t anyone’s fault, but it was true all the same.  
  
Faultline’s Crew don’t know that side of me. They never knew Sonnie, never had to scoop her brains off the floor or splice them into a gene-engineered body, gambling everything on creating the impossible. I don’t have to pretend with them, don’t have to act like everything’s still the way it used to be. They know I’m out of place, they just have the wrong cause. Labyrinth’s made her choice, and so have I.  
  
“I understand, but I hope you understand the consequences of your decision.”  
  
Chevalier speaks up again, and his grip tightens on his fuckoff sword as he gets ready to attack. We don’t give them that chance. Gregor’s stomach has been whirling and churning throughout our conversation, and his skin suddenly erupts with a cloud of thick, acrid smoke that fills the street as Faultline shouts “go!”  
  
I scoop up Labyrinth in my arms again and run off to the right, following the bright flash of orange skin as Newter passes me by. It feels strange, running on two legs, but I don’t split my tail to support myself like I would have in the arena. Best to keep that sort of thing under wraps until it can be most effective. As we duck into the alleys of Philadelphia, I can hear successive cracks of concussive force as Myrrdin blasts apart our smoke cloud, but the cracks sound too light to have been the shot that hit our van. That must have been Chevalier then, him and his bullshit sword-cannon.  
  
There’s no way we can take them on an open field, but Philadelphia is a far more varied arena than I’m used to. In some ways it’s worse, the two heavy hitters completely outmatch us as combatants, but there are many ways we can turn this to our advantage. Ducking into the alleyways is one of them, Chevalier and Myrrdin are cocky as all hell, and won’t think twice about pursuing us. I can hear them casually chatting on their way in, as Faultline silently directs us into position.  
  
“Well, my friend, I’m a guest in your fair city. So, who are these ne’r do wells?”  
  
That must be Myrrdin. He’s really getting a kick out of this wizard thing.  
  
“They’re not mine, fortunately enough. Faultline’s a roving mercenary, she’ll do anything for a bit of cash.”  
  
He’s baiting an attack, the two of them striding down the middle of the alleyway like they owned the bloody place.  
  
“Don’t let the orange one touch you, his skin induces unconsciousness. The fat one can generate chemicals in his stomach, but it’ll take him a while to brew up a new batch after that smoke. The lizard isn’t a parahuman. I think it might be one of Blasto’s creations; he’s probably footing the bill.”  
  
“You’re sure about that?” Myrrdin sounded surprised. I began to listen intently from my perch on the rooftops, a couple of stories above where the wizard wannabee was looking down at his friend.  
  
“You know I have my ways. It doesn’t have any powers at all.”  
  
Nice to finally get confirmation on that, and it just validates my belief that parahumans are all bullshit cheaters. People had to work for this body, it wasn’t just handed to me on a silver fucking platter. We should have attacked by now; I can only assume Faultine was more interested in hearing what they had to say than in fighting. I can’t say I blame her. She’s hiding in the alleyway a few metres ahead of Chevalier, her hand resting on the wall of an abandoned building. On the other side of the street, Newter is waiting to give her a hand signal when everything’s in position.  
  
A line of brick dust crashes out of the façade of the abandoned building, as Faultine carves a great diagonal slash through its length. The brickwork crumbles and slides as the entire building pours itself into the small alleyway. Chevalier is caught by surprise, and raises his blade as if to parry the collapsing masonry. He moves in microseconds, and the sword extends to eight feet in length. Still, the sheer mass of masonry begins to overwhelm him. His armour will protect him, but it will slow him down.  
  
Myrrdin hadn’t been caught in the brickslide, which definitely wasn’t according to plan, and he begins to rocket upwards at tremendous speed. Acting on pure instinct, I leap off the roof and into the open gap of the alleyway, slamming myself into the wizard as he climbs. He’s stunned by the impact, but that still leaves us falling six stories to the ground. My tail swings left, catching the building beside us before embedding itself into a load-bearing pillar. We swing left, and I hold out the wizard in front of me as we slam into the fragile brickwork of the building. On the floor above us, my tail shears out of the pillar as I pull a muscle, noting with detached calm as the tendons tear and others tighten to take up the slack. Khanivore is a masterwork of redundant systems, but it can’t hold up indefinitely.  
  
Somehow, the wizard has managed to keep his grip on his staff and, as the force of our landing sends me rolling across the floor, his own descent stops completely, rendering him entirely stationary as he had been when flying. I end up on my back, looking down the length of my body at him, before rolling right as he draws a sigil in the air, sending forward a blast of concussive force that scatters brick dust and detritus into whirling spirals before blowing out the windows on the other side of the empty floor.  
  
Another blast is sent, and again I barely avoid it, before a third sigil is drawn right in front of my path. The blast catches me head on and I am hurled backwards, my exoskeleton developing hairline fractures with the force used. Blunt force will never damage a beastie as much as bladed edges, but successive strikes will eventually shatter through the densely engineered bone. I am hurled backwards, crashing through a wall and sliding to a stop right before the sudden drop to the road below, surrounded by the sounds of bricks clattering into oblivion.  
  
It would be a matter of seconds for me to roll back onto my feet, but those are seconds I don’t have. Instead, my tail separates beneath me and finds purchase on the ceiling above. I launch myself forwards, driving my claws in and out of the ceiling to move along, with my legs held out before me, bare talons poised to slice the wizard to ribbons. I quickly close the ten metres between us, but I’m not fast enough. He levels his staff towards me, and his jaw clenches in a steely grimace as he cries out a single word.  
  
“Banish!”  
  
Nothing happens, and I see his mouth drop open in shock as I drive my legs into him, breaking his concentration and sending him sprawling to the floor. I part my legs as we slide to a halt until I’m left straddling his waist in some monstrous parody of the cowgirl. My tendrils pin his limbs down, preventing him from drawing his sigils, and coil around his staff until it snaps under the pressure while I place my enormous hands over his face. I press down on his mouth and nose with the tenderness of a lover and simply wait, feeling his body jerking beneath me in a desperate attempt to free himself.  
  
It takes longer than you’d think to suffocate a man, and he’s still kicking when the orange blur of Newter zips up the side of the building only to come to a shocked stop by my side. I move my hands slightly to the right, exposing Myrrdin’s cheek to Newters touch. Within seconds he’s out of it, lost in his own little world. I hope it’s a bad trip. I stagger to my feet, breathing heavily in spite of my biology, my lungs drawing in huge gulps of air to soothe my nerves. Some distant part of me remarked that the wizard had trouble performing under pressure, a dark joke to distract myself from how close I had come to losing everything.  
  
I have put my body through the wringer, losing tendons in my tail and legs, and nearly fracturing my external ribcage. In less than an hour, the adrenaline will dissolve and I will begin to go through withdrawal, as the suppression of Slo-Mo’s aftereffects ends, and I spend a few hours as an insensible, shivering wreck. But I've won. I have taken everything this world could throw at me and emerged victorious. My immediate future looks like it will be full of miserable agony as my body knits itself back together as best it can without the suspension tank, but for now I'm high on victory, the sweetest drug of all, and I descend down the side of the building like a conquering hero, coming to rest before Faultline and the others.  
  
Chevalier is on the floor, partially buried beneath the brickwork, fast asleep. A minute chunk had been torn from his armour, just barely large enough for Newter to get his hands onto the exposed skin beneath. None of us speak as I descend, we're all still running off the adrenaline high, and none of us are willing to believe it was over quite yet. We run off into the alleys of Philadelphia, with Gregor the Snail carrying Labyrinth on his shoulder.


	7. Discord: 1.07

The conquering heroes stagger back into ‘Paddy’s Pub’, battered and bruised but victorious. Their clothes and skin are coated in a thin layer of brick dust, and their eyes are haggard and tired. Faultline is first in, moving off to the makeshift shower that had been set up in the old pub’s bathroom. Newter steps over to the bar, taking down a bottle of some half empty spirits from the pub’s better days and mixing it with a can of cola retrieved from a coolbag. Gregor sets Labyrinth down on one of the pubs few padded chairs, helping her remove her ballistic mask, before moving off to start packing away their small encampment. Faultline returns after a while, her armour brushed free of dust and her hair wrapped up in a white towel.  
  
I snag the shower before any of the others can move, though calling the hose and bucket a shower is perhaps being a little generous, and begin to remove the dust that had been thrown up when Myrrdin decided to shoot off blasts in a confined space. The red-grey detritus washes over my skin, and I run my claws along the tiny gaps in my armoured carapace, enjoying the sensation of the icy water against my skin. It cannot compare to the all-encompassing suspension tank, but I need to do the best job I can before withdrawal starts to kick in.  
  
I shake myself off rather than using the towel, removing the excess water while keeping my skin agreeably moist, and move back into the bar. I was in there for a while, and Faultine’s hair has now dried. She’s fitted her spiked ponytail of false quills back onto her head and looks about ready to go back out. I tilted my head towards her in confusion as she set a notepad down on the countertop.  
  
“I’m going to make the drop off to the client. On the way back I’ll pick up some food for tonight, then tomorrow morning we’ll skip town. I want to see if you can write, so if there’s anything you want me to buy then just set it down on paper. Don’t think too hard about it, just do what you think feels right. Skills stay behind even if memories don’t; Gregor here can speak fluent Icelandic.”  
  
It makes sense, but I can remember much more than she thinks. This is the moment, I decide, when I tell her who I really am. Faultline takes a pen from a discrete pouch in her armour and holds it out to me, removing the lid with a sharp click. It’s a fountain pen, bound together in wood and brass, and looks a lot pricier than the pens I’m used to. I accept it, gripping it in my claws with elaborate care. If I can avoid crushing Myrrdin’s skull, then I can hold a bloody pen. I think through in my head what I need to say, before leaning in to set it down on the page.  
  
At the worst possible moment, a spasm fires through my synapses, causing my right arm to twitch. There’s a crack, a louder and more noticeable sound than I have ever heard, and I look down in horror at the shards of wood and metal, and the clawed hands turned black with ink. Faultline sighs, and I shut my eyes in shame. I can’t bear to look at her, and I can feel yet more tremors building up as the back of my right foot taps a staccato rhythm into the floorboards. I open my eyes again, bringing my inky fingers up to my face, and look at the blackened digits, holding all the words left unsaid. With a single claw, I gently trace out a single word onto the page, before slinking off to sit against the wall with my head in my hands.  
  
‘MEAT’  
  
The Slo-Mo in my system is long gone, consumed within seconds of its creation, but the withdrawal effects were delayed by stimulants released from yet another gland, so as not to affect me mid-fight. Normally I never needed to use Slo-Mo, the connection between my brain and Khanivore was about as close as it gets so there was usually no need to speed it up with drugs, but on the rare occasions I did use it withdrawal always hit like a fucking freight train. The other Baiters never had to deal with this shit, they jacked out of their Beastie the moment the fight was over and went off to fuck whores while the bioware processors fought off the symptoms, but poor old Sonnie was left a gibbering mess every single time.  
  
This is worse. This is leagues worse.  
  
Now I can’t even run away to Sonnie, small comfort though it was. I’m stuck in this body as it convulses and twitches, as any signals I send to my limbs are contradicted or buried amidst false-positives. Muscle tendons start to pull in contrary directions, and redundant tissue only increases the amount of tissue to spasm. The others leave me alone as I begin to lose control, probably taking the first shakes for silent sobs. Faultline leaves off to the meet, after reassuring me that she can find another pen. I don’t care. I’ll still pay you back in full.  
  
The shakes get worse and worse, and the Crew begin to take notice. Newter spots it first, and comes over to me. For all his cockiness before, I can only see concern on his eyes. He speaks to me, but I don’t hear it. My ears are filled with discordant sounds, and his words become twisted into high pitched wailing amidst a monstrous orchestra of random noise. With my claws, I manage to scratch out a half-formed word from jagged shapes, pausing and restarting at different places along the wooden floor.  
  
‘WITHDRAWAL’  
  
He nods, and I think he looks at me quizzically. Everything I can see is brightening and blending together, filling my eyes with incandescent swirls of orange. I think I can make out him holding his arm up against my face, and with my last semblance of control I move my head into his waiting palm. Sweet relief floods through my body, seizing my trembling limbs and sending me tumbling headfirst into unconsciousness.  
  
Sometimes I dream, but never clearly enough to latch onto. I see disoriented episodes from my life, with elements chopped and changed at random. I remember signing on with Sonnie’s Predators as a Roadie, but they were called Jacob’s Banshees back then, and their members are mixed in with Faultine’s crew. I see myself leaving home, looking to get lost and find myself, before stumbling naked and alone into the alleyway in Pittsburgh, a brand tattooed onto my chest. Inevitably, what I see most is the Estate. My world is a riot of colour and bloodshed, but gradually the colours fade and sense returns to my aching limbs. I didn’t even know Khanivore could ache.  
  
As I blink away the spots from my eyes, I notice a strange weight on my arms. I look down, only to see Elle leaning up against me, staring off into space. I would have smiled, if Khanivore had the muscles to smile, but instead I simply reach up with an enormous hand and gently ruffle her hair. She doesn’t react, but it sure makes me feel better. Gregor’s standing behind the bar, frying up what looks like an absurd amount of mince beef, and Newter’s idly throwing darts at an ancient and crumbling dartboard. Faultline’s back, having swapped her armour for a white shirt and tight-fitting trousers, and she notices the slight movement of my arm. She nods at me, but I can see a thousand unspoken questions in her head. I gently manoeuvre myself around Labyrinth, leaving her amidst a pile of cushions, and stagger over to the bar on stiff joints.  
  
Faultline’s done more than just shop; there’s a small whiteboard sitting on the table, with a rubber and two whole packs of inexpensive markers. She looks like she’s about to say something to me, but there’s something I need to get off my chest first. I pick up one of the markers, carefully levering the lid off with a razor-sharp claw. As I write, whatever Faultline was about to say dies in her mouth, and her unflappable expression wavers before failing entirely.  
  
‘I didn’t lose my memory’  
  
Faultline calls over to Gregor, who was in the process of pouring the mince beef out into a bowl, and he too loses his composure when he sees what I have written.  
  
“So, who were you?” It’s Faultline who asks, Gregor’s still a little out of sorts.  
  
‘My name’s Sonnie. I’m not a parahuman.’  
  
“I had wondered what Chevalier was talking about,” Gregor mused as I wrote the next line, “but are you sure?”  
  
‘A few years back I got into trouble. Almost died. My friends took my brain out of my broken skull and put it in this body. In Khanivore.’  
  
“And what is Khanivore? A tinker creation?” Faultline now, who else?  
  
That pisses me off, just a little, and I let out a short growl before continuing.  
  
‘Fuck no. Khanivore’s real science, not magical bullshit. A Beastie used for pit fighting. We were bloody celebrities back in the UK.’  
  
“I’m afraid I haven’t heard of the sport.”  
  
Faultline’s sceptical, who could blame her? I write out the next sentence, the one on which everything rests. If she doesn’t believe this, then fuck knows what I’ll do.  
  
‘You wouldn’t have. Last I remember it was 2070, and there were no parahumans, no endbringers. There never were. I’m not from this Earth.’  
  
Faultline takes a seat at the bar and looks me in the eye. I meet her gaze head on. She sighs.  
  
“That makes an annoying amount of sense. We’re aware of parallel Earths; we have steady contact with Earth Aleph, for example. Nothing as advanced as what you’re describing, but it’s not beyond the realm of possibility.”  
  
Well thank fuck for that. Of course they’ve already found parallel universes, why wouldn’t they have? It’s practically a staple of the superhero genre. Newter notices the intensity of our discussion and comes over, by the ceiling rather than the floor. The moment he spots what’s written on the whiteboard, which is getting pretty full now, a dart falls out of his hand before juddering into the counter below. He’s still, utterly silent, and it’s Gregor who speaks up next.  
  
“Sonnie,” he says, seeing how the name feels on his tongue, “we’ve been looking into what causes Case 53’s for a while? Do you think we could be like you? Bioweapons plucked from other realities?”  
  
There’s no need to think about this one, but I’ve run out of space on the whiteboard. Gregor waits patiently as I wipe away my writing, but his curiosity overcomes him as I write the next line.  
  
‘You’re not bitek. Bitek has to follow the rules of biology, capes ignore it. Don’t know about whether you’re from a parallel universe, but your powers make no biological sense.’  
  
Gregor frowns slightly, but there’s not much I can do to help that. I don’t know anything about what caused this fucking mystery, but I do know that I’m nowhere near the level of a Parahuman.  
  
“Is there anything you remember about how you got here? Anything at all?”  
  
‘A flash of orange light. White walls. Another flash of orange. Waking up in an alley on the wrong side of the Atlantic.’  
  
For a moment I thought Gregor was going to speak again, was going to demand information I didn’t have. He didn’t, and I gained yet more respect for the man. He was pretty goddam zen.  
  
“Wait a minute… Where are you from?” Newter was trying to make light of things, but I could tell I’d shocked him.  
  
‘The UK. Lewisham, to be specific.’  
  
“Well top o’ the morning to you then!”  
  
The worse part is that I have no idea if he’s messing with me, or just that clueless. Fortunately, Faultline is there to get us back on track.  
  
“That explains why you knew you were going through withdrawal earlier. Listen, Sonnie, were you using drugs on your world?”  
  
Her concern is heart breaking, and I very quickly scrawl out something to appease her.  
  
‘Khanivore was made for pit fighting. This body has organs that I can control to release chemical stimulants and improve my performance in a fight. When the van got hit, I used one to speed up my reaction times. It’s not harmful to my system in the long run, and Khanivore doesn’t have the ability to get addicted, but withdrawals a bitch.  
  
Faultline’s face lights up with obvious relief. I get it; I wouldn’t be too happy to have a junkie on my team. Unfortunately, that’s not the problem she needs to be looking at.  
  
‘There’s a problem. My body wasn’t designed to go without our hardware for this long. I’ll be immobile in about two weeks, and dead soon after that.’  
  
“I see,” Faultline didn’t doubt me, I guess the hours spent in withdrawal must have proven my point, “what exactly are you missing?”  
  
Wipe the board, start writing again.  
  
‘My organs are inefficient, designed to be redundant, and need a suspension tank to replicate their functions. Without it, I’ll waste away.’  
  
Faultline paused for a while, deep in thought.  
  
“We could take you to a healer, but most healers work by resetting the body to its original state, which doesn’t help you at all. Panacea’s worked on birth defects in the past, but she wouldn’t help you."  
  
That doesn’t sound right. Everyone has a price, and I now have thirty grand to my name.  
  
‘€10,000?’  
  
Faultline laughs.  
  
“First off, I’ll be paying you in dollars,” ah right, forgot about that, “and second, Panacea won’t take your money.”  
  
“She’s with New Wave,” Newter’s voice drifted down from the ceiling, “straight as an arrow and about as subtle. They’re like the girl scouts with superpowers. She’ll take one look at you and either run shrieking about a monster or sic her sister on you the moment she realises you’re with us.”  
  
Well shit. Typical bloody heroes.  
  
“I think…” Faultline continued hesitantly, more so than I’d ever seen her, “I think your best bet would be Blasto,” there’s a name I’ve heard before, “he’s a Tinker out in Boston who grows his own creations. It’s possible he’d be willing to sell you some of his equipment for a few thousand.”  
  
I tilt my head and look at Faultline. I don’t know exactly where Boston is, but I don’t think it’s near Philadelphia. She must see my confusion, because her face takes on a saurian grin that matches my own.  
  
“We need to get out of Philadelphia anyway, although the FBI and PRT will be fighting for jurisdiction over the case for months at least, and Boston is as good a place as any. I can set up a meeting between you and Blasto, and we can take on a few jobs in Boston while we’re there.”  
  
We shake hands, her own looking comically small in my massive mitts, and Gregor hands me a plate laden with kilograms of mince beef which I wolf down in a single gulp.  
  
“I have to ask,” Faultline speaks up once my disgusting display ends, “which do you prefer, Sonnie or Khanivore?”  
  
It takes me a while to think. This question cuts deep into each and every issue that’s been gnawing away at my soul since the Estate. Who am I? In the end, there’s only one answer.  
  
‘Can’t I be both?’  
  
I hear laughter from above my head, and look up to fix Newter with a piercing glare. He doesn’t stop, and barely manages to force out a few words between laughs.  
  
“A secret identity! We’ll buy you a trenchcoat and a fedora! It’ll be brilliant!”  
  
Faultline’s grin widens, and even Gregor cracks a smile.  
  
“It’s only fair,” Faultline talks, good cheer seeping into her words, “who says you can’t have a secret identity? You’ve put a lot of trust in me, and I’m happy to reciprocate. My real name is Melanie Fitts.”  
  
Melanie Fitts. Miss Melanie Fitts. Miss Fitts. Miss Fitts, and her misfits.  
  
I learn something about Khanivore in this moment, something that years of fighting and testing had never been able to reveal. I can laugh.


	8. Interlude: Spitfire

“Put the money in the bag!”  
  
The cashier trembles, her arms shaking uncontrollably as she shovels cash into the plain black carrier bag. It was a fucking waste, barely more than seventy-five dollars, but I need that money to get through the night. God, she’s terrified of me. I try not to see myself through her eyes, but my imagination conjures up a brief image of a faceless gas mask, with black smoke pouring out through the nozzle. I had needed something to hide my face, and my dad had brought the mask back from Iraq as a souvenir.  
  
Shit. I can’t let myself think about him. Not now, not when I need to be the big scary supervillain. Come on Emily, pull yourself together.  
  
My mask lasts just long enough for the helpless cashier, her eyes wide with naked terror, to hand the Alexandria backpack back to me. I zip it up and throw it over my shoulder, sprinting out into the night. Once I’ve gotten far enough away from the sirens, real or imagined I honestly can’t tell anymore, I stagger into an alleyway and throw off my mask, pushing back the red hood of my overalls before vomiting onto the ground, my hands pressed against the wall like a drunk.  
  
Once I’m done throwing up my shame, I root around in the rucksack, past the green paper and loose change, and pull out an anonymous black hoodie, replacing it with the gas mask. With the hood up, I became just another kid. It isn’t the perfect disguise, but it means I can walk the streets without being stopped by the cops, or the capes, or the gangs. I'm just another girl walking alone at night through Brockton Bay. Great.  
  
Nothing I can do about it. I can’t go back home, home isn’t there anymore, and there are probably arrest warrants out for Emily. The hoodie hides my curly brown hair, and conceals my freckles in shadow. It’s better than nothing, but not by much. Shit. I can’t believe it’s come to this. Ten days ago I was worried about my falling grades, that I wasn’t spending enough time with my friends, or wondering how to get Andrew to finally pick up the courage to ask me out. How the fuck did I end up sticking up gas stations?  
  
I know how, of course. I killed those men. Sure, they’d broken into our home but I just can’t forget the looks on their faces as my liquid flame ran down their skin in burning streams, melting the polyester of their red and green clothes. Our carpets followed, and our curtains, and the rest of our house, and the house across the street. It was my fault. I hadn’t been able to stop screaming, and every jet of flame that shot out of my mouth just made me scream more. I don’t know if my parents survived, they were upstairs asleep while I was staying up on the computer, and I can’t bear to find out.  
  
I ran out onto the streets without looking back, spewing flame onto the road before I thought to shut my mouth. I went back there after the second night on the street, only to find a burned-out ruin that offered me neither hope or answers. That was where I found the gas mask, among the ashes of my old life. From there it’s been a quick slide into villainy. I hate that, hate what I’ve become, and hate myself for not having the courage to hand myself in. But, for all I hate it, I’m terrified of prison, of being sent away forever by the Protectorate or cut up by the ABB as an example of why you shouldn’t fuck with their people.  
  
I shiver, and draw my hands close into my chest. I must look like a junkie, but I’m just freezing. Ten nights. Ten nights spent out on the streets, and five of them without even a sleeping bag. That was my own fault, I really should have figured that someone would be selling sleeping bags to Brockton Bay’s enormous homeless population. The camping store in the North End was a godsend, filled with far more homeless customers than actual campers and with a well-stocked, and cheap, second-hand section.  
  
Still, I’m a long way from its warm comforts now. That’s more of a practical measure than anything else; even I know not to rob stores close to where you sleep. It means a hike right through the middle of the city, but in the end it’s worth it. Around me I can see the people of Brockton Bay staggering out of the clubs. It’s three AM on Saturday, which means the streets are full of drunks. Used to be I’d be one of them, sneaking out from home with a fake ID in hand and without a care for how it made my parents feel. Just another in a very long list of regrets.  
  
There’s a group walking towards me on my side of the street, moving away from the usual flow of people towards the city’s better neighbourhoods. They’re heading to the old docks, which means they’re either drunker than most or suicidal. I put my head down, hoping to pass them by unnoticed. No such luck.  
  
“Hey, are you okay?”  
  
I look up for a brief moment, catching the eyes of a blonde woman with a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. She’s accompanied by a tall black guy who looks like he lifts cars in his spare time and a thin teen with a sappy looking face. The woman is glaring at me with more interest than she should, and there’s something predatory about her grin. Like a fox sizing up its meal.  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
I shoulder past them before she can reply, and I hear the trio continue on without me.  
  
“What was that about, Lisa?” one of them asked as their voices faded into the distance.  
  
“I’ll tell you later.”  
  
My walk brings me through the rest of the city, showing me the true face of Brockton Bay. In a dark alleyway to my left, four thugs in ABB colours nudge each other and point at me with bare blades, before deciding instead to take a puff from their crack pipe. I see four bouncers, sporting the grizzled look of former Dockworkers, drag a man in a tuxedo from a well-to-do nightclub. They bring him into the alley beside the building, and two of them hold him steady while a third wails on him with meaty fists. A shadow passes overhead and I instinctively try to shrink deeper into my hood as I spot Kid Win and Shadow Stalker zip across the rooftops.  
  
I had idolised them once. Now the heroes are just something else I need to hide from.  
  
Eventually, home looms above me. That’s not me going all poetic either; the remains of the Monument are absolutely enormous, and stretch out to my right well into the bay. The Boat Graveyard surrounds me, hulking vessels driven ashore or simply sunk into the bay itself. The graveyard, more than even the gangs, has killed Brockton Bay. The older locals like to hold onto the comfort that the bay had always been in decline, they like to tell themselves that Leviathan was to blame when he sunk Newfoundland. That’s a fucking joke.  
  
People did this, stupid people acting in the heat of the moment. I remember my dad telling me about watching it from the Boardwalk, waiting with the rest of the National Guard for the order to board the fleet of cargo ships and seize control of the vessels back from the Dockworker’s Association. Pirates, they’d called them, but nobody believed it. The weekend soldiers had waited there, as the police tried their best to break up the strike on their own, before all hell broke loose.  
  
Somebody fired, nobody saw who or on what side, and soon the bay was crisscrossed with gunfire, yellow tracers breaking through the night sky. Some of the more militant unions fired rockets they’d bought from the Teeth into the Protectorate’s floating fortress, then, when the missiles burst harmlessly against the shields, they’d turned their attention to the soldiers on the boardwalk. The ship they’d taken ended up shot to pieces by the National Guard, and the Protectorate had swooped in to clear up the leftovers.  
  
The other ships panicked, and shouts and fights broke out in even greater numbers. Everything went to hell, and for a while it seemed like the Dockworker’s Association would die in that bay. Then the largest ship had been rippled by explosions that tore out of the hull right on the waterline, sinking the hundreds of metres of steel in minutes. The Association had panicked, and made good on their threat to block the harbour. That was the end, as the guns fell silent and the people on both sides realised just what they had done. Brockton Bay was dead.  
  
The Monument was that ship, now serving only as a monument to the way the city used to be. The ship drifted as it sank, until its bow was kissing the shoreline. It has never been moved. The East Coast has enough other ports that it simply isn’t worth the cost it would take to fix it. The ship is also a great place to hide, something I had learned over the past three days. There’s a section on the shoreline where scavengers have torn away at the hull, exposing the ships interior. I haul myself up and into the ship, careful to wear gloves to avoid cutting myself on the jagged metal, and move through the corridors lit only by a small handheld flashlight.  
  
Eventually I find the small cubbyhole in the middle of the ship that I now call home, if only for old time’s sake. I’m not alone, but on a ship this big that doesn’t really matter. I’ve never seen the others, but I know they are there. I can see evidence of their presence sometime; a loose wrapper or the occasional sleeping bag in a hard-to-reach cubbyhole. I leave them their space and they leave me mine, a truly anonymous community. Some small-time gang has set up a meth lab in the bridge, but their goons are easily avoided and never leave the ship’s tower. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen any of them in a while. Maybe they got hit?  
  
It doesn’t matter, all that does is the small cubby hole that I have made my own. It’s filled with everything I own, from my ragged sleeping bag on the floor to the wind-up lamp and radio beside it. That’s it. That, and a small hole in the ceiling that holds my meagre funds. Still, it feels more like home than the bench by the ferry station, or the partially-collapsed warehouse in the docks. At least here I am kind of indoors, and I have stolen an intact door from an old cabin to offer me even more privacy. I block this door against the frame every night with a heavy metal barrel, part of the healthy paranoia I have developed, and crawl into my sleeping bag, throwing my boots to one side but not bothering to take off my overalls.  
  
Sleep comes easy, more a sign of exhaustion than anything else, and I’m out almost immediately. I don’t dream anymore, which is probably for the best.  
  
  
The sound of footsteps on the deck above forces me out of my sleep, paranoia driving me to squirm out of the sleeping bag as silently as I can manage. Voices drift down through the holes and corridors that litter the Monument, voices I don’t know.  
  
“You’re sure she’s here?” Male, disbelieving.  
  
“Grue, you know I’m sure.” Female, cocky. No. Arrogant.  
  
“Alright. Bitch, see if you can find her.” The same man.  
  
“Brutus, Judas, Angelica, hunt.” Female, not the same as the first. No idea what she’s feeling but that sure as shit sounds bad.  
  
I throw my gas mask on, spending precious seconds fiddling with the straps before wasting yet more moments levering the barrel away from the door. Above me, I can hear the pounding of feet on metal, far louder than feet have any right to be. As I struggle my way out of my room, pulling my laces tight and looping them around my boots rather than tying them, I can hear the voices continue.  
  
“Hunt? You sure, Bitch? Don’t you mean find?” Some distant part of me notes the new voice.  
  
“Never taught them find.”  
  
“It’ll be fine. They just need to flush her out of hiding, then I’ll win her over with my natural charm.”  
  
“Whatever you say, Tats.”  
  
As I sprint through the corridors, desperately making for the shoreline, I see my neighbours for the first time. The homeless and the desperate, fleeing through the corridors on bare feet, and dressed in ill-fitting clothes clearly thrown on in a hurry. No words pass between us, and soon our routes split apart, Monstrous barks begin to echo through the ship, and the pounding metal sounds get closer and closer.  
  
My breathing is running hot and heavy, and small flecks of flammable spittle fly out of my mouth only to burn up on contact with the air. I pass an intersection, and as I glance right, I catch a brief glimpse of some kind of monster, all spikes and teeth, bounding across the parallel corridor. I run harder, moving faster than I ever have before. I leap over the jagged metal that litters the deck, the remains of the last ‘fuck you’ of the Dockworker’s Association, almost effortlessly, not thinking about anything except getting out.  
  
The wall in front of me dents, shuddering and bulging before the rivets begin to pop out, clattering onto the floor. I catch a sight of animal eyes, and feel warm breath on my skin. I duck beneath the bulging metal, only to hear it shatter against the opposite wall as the beast bursts through. Every instinct in me is telling me to keep running, to flee and not look back, but I can hear its enormous feet pounding closer and closer, and I know that I can’t outrun it.  
  
I spin on my heels to face it, but slip on a patch of wet metal and fall onto my ass, looking back at the four-legged monster charging towards me. I benign to scoot backwards, before letting out an instinctive stream of napalm into the beast. I angle my fire downwards as the first streams hit the beast, creating a pool of burning liquid between us. The beast refuses to cross and ignores its burning flesh as it leaves in search of other prey.  
  
The instant my shock fades I shoot to my feet, turning once again to sprint. I can still hear the howls and barks around me, and I begin spitting jets of fire into every corridor, desperate to buy enough time to escape. Gradually, the dark of the ship and the flickering orange of my flames give way to the artificial yellow of distant streetlamps, and I jump down the gap between the entrance and the sandy beach, before sprinting off into the city.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
Well shit. They’re never going to let me hear the end of this. We’re standing at the bow of the ship, right on the very edge. Anyone looking from below would see the four of us silhouetted against the night’s sky, the moon at our back, and the Monument of Brockton Bay beneath our feet. It was meant to impress Spitfire, to show our strength, but that’s a wasted effort now. I can tell as I look at her scrabble up from the sand. Grue’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to step forward and make our point. I simply shake my head in frustration.  
  
“There’s no point. She’s too scared to ever consider joining us.”  
  
His motorcycle helmet is blank and impassive, but I can tell he’s scowling. I could tell even if my power wasn’t showing me just how many different ways he blamed me for this. He’s right, of course. I took the lead on this. I saw a vulnerable girl and let my feelings run away from me. Worse, I relied too much on my power. I was confident it would show me a way to her heart, but instead it told me that wasn’t possible.  
  
“It was the dogs, wasn’t it?”  
  
Regent is smug, as ever, but he’s right. I fucked up with Spitfire; she’ll never join us now, not even if I tried a softer sell.  
  
We’ll just have to do better with the next one.


	9. Blastocyst: 2.01

When we leave Philadelphia, I see another world.  
  
We’d just crossed into New Jersey, apparently, crammed into the back of a minibus. We had to strip out most of the seats to let me in, but at least the Transit’s tinted windows mean I can look out at my surroundings. Philadelphia had been familiar to many of the usual areas the Predator’s had visited, aging brick buildings giving way to rows of endless suburbs. But we’d left the city, and made our way onto the M95. That's where things really open up, that's where I see the beauty of this world.  
  
The road itself can’t compare to the M500, which snakes its way along the length of the Thames, suspended above the river by polyp-struts grown in orbit and brought down the Carlisle Space Elevator. In comparison, the 95 has proven a dull thing, flat against the ground and made of flimsy tarmac. The road isn’t important, though, what matters is the countryside. I’d heard people talk about the English ideal, of rolling green hills and quiet fields, but I’d never seen it. My England surrendered its green spaces to rising floodwater, to urban sprawl or to kilometre-wide biodomes that could grow food far more efficiently than any old-fashioned farm.  
  
Why bother to preserve the environment, when you can just grow megaorganisms to produce oxygen at a rate far faster than thousands of acres of forests? Why not use the flat ground on either side of the Thames to house the supports for an enormous elevated motorway, capable of holding eight lanes of traffic and a suspension railway? Why not let London grow and grow until it spans from old Reading to the White Cliffs of Dover, and why not bury those cliffs beneath supporting polyp-scaffolding and sea walls to keep that city from collapsing? Let the Northern metropolis merge into an unbroken chain of industry from Newcastle to Carlisle, let the sky be sealed away beneath urban domes kilometres across.  
  
There’s none of that here, or at least not yet. There are green fields on either side of us, greener than I’ve ever seen in my life, and the towns here are small and uncomplicated. I can see it won’t last, there’s simply too many cities in this area. Eventually, New York will consume Boston and Philadelphia, and every other city on the North-East Coast. Their names will be lost beneath the overwhelming presence of New York, as entire States become subsumed into a single city. I know, because I saw it happen. I know it happens, and it’ll probably happen here to. So I savour this moment, this wonderful sight, knowing that it will end.  
  
The rest of the crew are mercifully quiet, apparently understanding my fascination. Melanie’s driving now, the front windows aren’t tinted so we needed a human face at the wheel, and Labyrinth is sitting up front with her, her eyes darting across the scenery in fits and starts. We’re moving at quite a pace, and that movement seems to bring her back to the here and now. She’s as fascinated by our surroundings as I am. Gregor and Newter are sitting on the minibus’ few remaining seats, the two a polite distance apart. Newter is idly scrolling through his phone, apparently having kept it switched off for our stay in Philadelphia, and Gregor is thumbing through an old book.  
  
“Hey,” Newter suddenly exclaims, “we’re on the PHO Philadelphia board!”  
  
He looks around with a wild grin on his face, expecting some reaction from the others. None of us give him the time of day. He looks at me, expecting curiosity if nothing else, but I’ve had my fill of acronyms for now. He scowls before explaining anyway. We’re passing through a small town, so I look away from the window to humour him.  
  
“Parahumans Online is basically the world’s biggest cape messaging board. It’s a whole site of cape groupies! Or people who are in denial about being cape groupies.”  
  
So what? Everything on Earth is on the internet, and there’s talk about beaming it to the colonies as well. The Predators have our own following on the Beastie-Baiting boards, which are way more popular than those Robot Wars hacks. Had our own following, I suppose. I try not to think about what the others must be going through right now.  
  
“They’re all talking about our fight in Philly. They don’t know it was us, obviously, but some dumb idiot snapped a pic of Chevalier half-buried in a pile of bricks. Pity they didn’t get Myrrdin too, but I guess we left him a bit out of the way.”  
  
That’s worrying. People, men especially, tend to take damages to their ego very personally. I scrawl out a word on the whiteboard.  
  
‘Revenge?’  
  
He snorts.  
  
“Boss! Sonnie wants to know if Chevalier’ll come after us!”  
  
Melanie doesn’t scoff. Instead she calmly lays out the situation.  
  
“We’ll be fine, Sonnie. The PRT and the FBI are fighting over jurisdiction. Normally it’d go to the PRT right away, but, because the crime was committed in the FBI’s office, the judges are a bit more sympathetic this time. It’ll be months before they sort jurisdiction out, by which time we’ll have faded into irrelevancy.”  
  
That’s reassuring. Last thing I want is to end up in a cell, especially before my appointment with Blasto. Faultline had called a contact in Boston, and they’d managed to let the bioengineer know that we’re looking to meet.  
  
“Even if the PRT gets the case, they won’t pursue us very hard. The PRT is more about containment than law enforcement. That’s not what they tell you, and that’s not the image they put out, but its true. The Directorate understands that they can’t stop parahuman crime, so they prioritise. We’re well below their radar. Not because we don’t commit crimes, in fact we pull off much larger crimes than many of the gang capes, but because we’re nice about it.  
  
“We don’t put drugs on the street, or deal in human trafficking or arms dealing. We’re parahuman criminals, but our acts don’t cause human crimes. I bet the PRT would love it if more capes went our way.”  
  
It makes a little sense. It’s the same way the millicents always ignored our fights, even though they were technically illegal. I even managed to pull a policewoman in Leeds. We’ve passed the town now, so I go back to staring out of the windows.  
  
The next hour passes slowly, and I savour every moment of it. Gregor asks me what I find so interesting about the view. If it were Newter asking then I’d assume he was taking the piss, but Gregor seems pretty Zen. So, I tell him. Not with speech, obviously, but with words written on the whiteboard. He puts down his book, and we spend a while just chatting about where I came from. Eventually words fail me, so I wipe the board clean and set to sketching. Turns out, the same bioprocessors that improve my fine motor skills in combat can also make me a pretty good artist, even using a bloody marker pen.  
  
It takes a while for me to fill the board, with Gregor waiting patiently all the while, but eventually it’s done. It’s not a masterpiece by any standards but I think I’ve done a decent job. That special artistic flair is beyond me, it was always more Ivrina’s thing, and my sketch instead comes out a bit more photorealistic. It’s the London skyline, seen from an arena in Battersea. Skyscrapers fill the view to the east and west, looking spindly and fragile next to the enormous arcologies of the corporations, but the centre of the page is occupied by an enormous dome of hexagonal plates four kilometres in diameter, shielding the ancient stone buildings of Westminster from our own pollution.  
  
Gregor looks in fascination at the board, before smiling at me.  
  
“It looks beautiful.”  
  
I reach out to write a reply, only to pause before making that mistake. I'm a little stuck now. Gregor chuckles to himself and pulls out his own phone, immortalising the image before passing it up front to Labyrinth, who stares at the sketch intently. Newter looks over her shoulder and Faultine risks a glance, before stealing several successive looks when the road allows. After they’ve all had their fill, Gregor hands the board back to me. I wipe away the sketch, and write my response.  
  
‘It looks beautiful from a distance. My sketch can’t show the real London. You’d have to live there for that.’  
  
Gregor brushed his fingers against his chin in the philosophical way. He had an accent, but I couldn’t place it.  
  
“True. It is human nature to want what you do not have, to experience something you have not seen before. Once you get past the new experiences, all cities are much the same. Still, if you are the type for tourism then we’ll be passing New York soon.”  
  
New York! Now there’s a name I recognise!  
  
New York Megacity is the largest urban conglomeration in North America, or was it the San Andreas Metropolis? Whatever. The point is, everyone’s heard of New York. It’s in all our films and a lot of the TV shows, but the older stuff is almost always more popular than the new. Manhattan’s underneath a dome now, and the harbour was blocked off by Sea Walls of immense polyp-growths before being drained and added to the city. That’s not the New York anybody wants to see. But this is.  
  
We pass along the motorway and I see skyscrapers in the distance. I can’t quite see them clearly, and I lean forwards unconsciously until my crest meets the glass with a quiet tink that somehow managed to be heard by everyone in the van. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Melanie look up in the rear-view mirror before chuckling to herself. She reaches into a bag at her feet and pulls out a set of binoculars, handing them over to Gregor who passes them on the me. I chirp in gratitude, I’m getting better at speaking without words, before pressing one of the scopes against my right eye, shutting the other.  
  
That doesn’t look like New York. Certainly not as it was on TV. That’s where all the old stone skyscrapers should be, and there are a few knocking about, but most of the buildings are glass and steel. I can’t see the Empire State building or that other one, the one that looks like the Empire but isn’t. Something’s off here, and I wonder for a moment if Gregor’s pulling my leg, before dismissing the idea. He’s too Zen for that. I sound my confusion, and it takes Gregor a while to respond.  
  
“I suppose it doesn’t look like what you were expecting. It was hit by Behemoth in nineteen ninety-four, and much of Manhattan was destroyed. They’ve rebuilt it since, but they decided not to recreate the lost buildings. It was argued that to replace them would be to ignore the tragedy.”  
  
Fuck. Just when I think I can understand this world, it pulls something like this. I have to keep reminding myself that this isn’t just the past. Things are different here. They have capes and warlords and Endbringers. How much further will they change? I’m a little bittersweet as we travel through New York. I feel this incredible sense of loss whenever I catch a glimpse of the glass towers. I had an opportunity nobody ever had, to see the world as it was beyond old films and photographs, only to have it taken from me almost two decades before I arrived. I’m actually glad when New York gives way to yet more fields as we leave the city.  
  
Still, it was nice to see the city. There was something wonderous about looking over so many buildings and not seeing the constant heat-shimmer overhead. It was nice being away from the ceaseless whine of endless traffic, or the neon strobing of the city’s lights. New York is a lot less complicated than the cities I’ve seen before, and I’m amazed at how much more of a presence the skyscrapers have when they’re not sandwiched between vast arcologies and colossal domes. It’s a view that won’t last, and I am grateful to have seen it.  
  
Even my misery can’t hold up forever, and certainly not when Newter finds some way to amuse himself beyond his phone.  
  
“Stratford!”  
  
‘Yes’  
  
We’ve been on the road for three hours at this point, only stopping once while Fautline bought burgers for the others, and a whole bucket of fried chicken for me.  
  
“Wallingford!”  
  
‘Yes, I think’  
  
We pass through fields and towns, both laid out in the uncomplicated grids loved by urban planners everywhere.  
  
“Manchester!”  
  
Seriously?  
  
‘Yes’  
  
Out of Connecticut and into Massachusetts. The green fields give way to an even more wonderous sight. Forests stretch out forever on either side of the road, endless rows of greenery standing tall and proud. We pass more trees in an hour than I’ve seen in my twenty-two years of life.  
  
“Oxford!”  
  
Fuck off.  
  
‘Yes’  
  
Getting closer and closer to Boston now.  
  
“Manchester!”  
  
Didn’t we do that one already?  
  
‘Yes, again.’  
  
“Alright, I already know Londonderry.”  
  
‘No’  
  
“Wait, seriously?”  
  
‘Not in England’  
  
Fucking hell, don’t these Americans have any bloody imagination. Get your own names, you bloody magpies!  
  
We slide into Boston without fanfare, as the countryside gives way to endless rows of suburbs. The suburbs are interesting, all white picket fences and with trees interspersed between the houses. It’s a side of America that I always thought was made up. Inevitably, this vision of suburbia turns into the city itself. Boston seems a lot more subdued than Philadelphia. It puts me in mind of Oxford, although Boston isn’t surrounded by flood walls. It has that calm atmosphere, and a desire to keep up a clean appearance.  
  
Melanie talks to me as she brings us through the city, explaining what’s going on. Her contact is a fixer in the city, a useful fellow to have if you’re a roving band of mercenaries, who set them up with a place to stay for a few days, while also making overtures to Blasto. She also gave me the rundown on the local colour, saying that the city mostly belongs with a man named Accord. Blasto and Accord aren’t at war, but the two aren’t exactly friends. We’ll be meeting with Accord first, to formally introduce ourselves and ask for permission to take on small jobs in his territory.  
  
We move past the nicer parts of the city, and I note with interest the clean campus of MIT, an acronym I recognise for once, before ending up in a business district, filled with warehouses. The predator in me notes that the Fixer has set us up on the edge of the district, so we can blend in with residential traffic, in a nondescript warehouse. Melanie puts on her helmet as we approach, slipping into Faultline with ease, and Gregor reaches over to put on Labyrinth’s mask. Faultline pulls the van over and steps over to a man in nondescript clothing, accepting a set of keys and shaking his hand before beckoning us over to the building.  
  
The Fixer departs as we open up our holiday home, revealing the empty floor of a very large warehouse. Gregor goes back to bring the minibus inside while the rest of us go exploring. Most of the site is empty, and for I moment I wonder if we’ll be roughing it, but, to my surprise, the offices have been turned into a proper flat, with a little kitchenette, a few beds, and two sofas in front of a telly. Before anyone else has a chance to interrupt, I stride over to one of the sofas and lie down on the massive piece of furniture, filling it from end to end.  
  
This’ll do nicely indeed.


	10. Blastocyst: 2.02

I feel warmth playing across my face, and reach up with my hand to brush away the irritation. There’s a moment of shock when my hand brushes against leathery flesh and smooth plates of bone, but the disconnect fades almost as soon as it appeared. I lazily open a single eye, only to wince at the sight of the rising sun. The converted office space has no external windows to speak of, but it does look over the factory floor. The warehouse, on the other hand, does have long windows running along its length near the roof, and the sun is low enough in the sky that the light is shining along the width of the warehouse and into the office, where it settles on my face.  
  
There’ll be no sleep now, not without getting up to close the blinds, so instead I roll out of bed and onto all fours. As I shake off the last dregs of tiredness, I take in the sight of the sofa that served as my bed, the beds themselves being much too small, and note the sagging cushions and springs. I’m sure it was like that last night. Not like I’m fat or anything.  
  
I pad silently through the small flat, taking a quick glance into the actual bedrooms only to spot the other four members of the crew fast asleep. I smile to myself. It’s nice to be part of something again; it’s like back when I first joined Jacob’s Banshees. I’d gone from being on my own to spending day and night surrounded by other people. We were real rough-and-ready types, keeping our gene-spliced rottweiler in the back of a beat-up van and following it in a caravan that slept far more people than it should. I’d just been the driver and general dogsbody back then, but I’d really felt like I was part of the family.  
  
Past the bedrooms is a small kitchenette, with a large dining room table. When Faultline had said ‘Safehouse’ I’d thought of some real hole-in-the-wall place with barren concrete floors and maybe a couple of chairs. Don’t get me wrong, this is no Kensington condo but it’s still a lot better than I was expecting. No effort has been put into decorating the place, and some of the walls are faded and cracked, but all the furniture looks fairly recent. I guess crime does pay.  
  
There’s a bathroom next door, four toilet cubicles against one wall and communal showers against the other, with a row of sinks marking the third wall. I look at the four showerheads and pace over, setting myself beneath them. In a single graceful movement, or it would be graceful if I wasn’t still dead tired, my tail rises straight upwards before peeling into the four tendrils like the petals on a flower. The buttons beneath each showerhead are all depressed simultaneously, and the water cascades down onto me.  
  
Holy fuck that’s freezing!  
  
I leap into the air before staggering away, letting out an angry growl. Right, nobody’s been here for a while. It’ll take a bit for the hot water to cycle through. I reach out with a clawed hand until I’m satisfied with the heat, then continue my interrupted shower. After a few moments a groggy Melanie pokes her head around the bathroom door, her hair’s bedraggled but at least she looks fresh. I wilt under her gaze and lower my head in apology, steaming hot water running down my crest in a dripping stream.  
  
“Too cold?”  
  
Her tired face lights up with a saurian grin as I nod sheepishly, and she steps back away from the door.  
  
Eventually, the scent of frying meat draws me away from my shower, and I pause to shake off the excess water before padding away. Part of me feels a bit pissed about how animalistic I’m acting, but mostly I’m just glad to have wetted my skin. It’s drying out a lot faster now, and it won’t be long before it starts to peel. A few days, maybe.  
  
Hopefully this Blasto can sort it out, but he’s not even a proper scientist. Just another bullshit supervillain. This body was built by scientists: two bioengineering graduates who didn’t want to be tied to a corporation, a nurse who proved as graceful with a knife as any surgeon and a hardware specialist to build the machines needed to put it all together. Part of me is a little pissed off that one man might be able to repeat their work.  
  
It’s petty, but I guess I’m just a petty person.  
  
The Crew are all gathered around the dining table, eating a variety of different breakfasts. Faultline’s Fixer has set us up with a stocked fridge and full cupboards, so there is plenty of food to go around. Gregor’s frying up a storm of bits of chicken breasts and eggs, which can only be for me. He seems to enjoy cooking. I guess you have to take your pleasures where you can find them, especially when you can’t go out in public. I should learn. Maybe make blood pudding.  
  
Newter is wolfing down a plate of bacon and eggs with impressive speed, while Elle is playing with her plate of Egg and Soldiers. Melanie, looking significantly more awake now, is making do with a simple bowl of muesli. Gregor finishes up his frying and sets down the protein-filled goodness in a bowl on the table, before moving to his own plate of bacon and eggs. With the amount of biomass he must lose every time he creates his chemicals, you’d think he’d be eating more. Just another friendly reminder that everyone except me can play hopscotch with the laws of nature.  
  
It’s an odd little family we’ve got going; Melaine at the head of the table, Newter and Labyrinth on one side and Gregor at the other end. One of the Crew has removed all the chairs from the remaining length of the table, leaving me enough room to sit on my hindlegs. I briefly consider using the knife and fork, looking at the utensils, the size of my hand and the size of the bowl, before picking up the bowl and pouring the food down my maw. Once it’s gone, and the bowl has been put back down, I catch Newter looking at me with a dozy look on his face. I tilt my head as if to ask what’s the matter and watch as he begins to chuckle to himself.  
  
The moment doesn’t last, and once it fades Faultline, not Melanie, speaks up.  
  
“We’ll be meeting with Accord today. We need to let him know we plan to operate in Boston, for however long Khanivore’s business with Blasto takes. Newter, Gregor, you’ve both done this before, so you know what to expect. Labyrinth and Khanivore, this is for you.”  
  
“Accord essentially runs Boston, apart from a few hold outs. Blasto is one such hold out, so we’ll be meeting with Accord to let him know. We’d need to do it anyway, Accord’s possessive like that, but it’s absolutely vital this goes off without a hitch.”  
  
“Accord’s a perfectionist-“  
  
“He’s anal as all hell,” Newter interrupts.  
  
“-and he doesn’t react well to slights. Even the slightest misstep on our part will see us dead before we hit the pavement. That means we need to be on our best behaviour for the meeting. We can’t leave anyone behind either. Labyrinth, I want you to stay close to Gregor. He’ll look after you.”  
  
“Okay,” the kisa murmured, the first word I’ve heard her say since Philadelphia.  
  
“Sonnie, just be careful. He’ll be interested in you because you’re the reason we’re seeing Blasto.”  
  
I nod in understanding. Another jumped up gangster with airs and graces. Better to play along than emasculate them. We spend the next hour getting ready for the meet, like schoolgirls agonising over their hair before a date. Those of us who still wear clothes are putting on their best; Faultline in particular is having Gregor and Newter look over her armoured robes, agonising over every scrap of fabric. For my part, I just stand under the shower for another few minutes. Clothes really are a waste of time.  
  
Boston’s still a nice city. It’s old, like a city should be, and there’s enough greenery about to draw my eye. Apparently it’s historical or something, but I never really paid much attention to history. Accord’s base is in the nicest part, full of rich people with upturned noses eating health foods and shopping at expensive supermarkets. Some things never change. It’s probably a crime to bring a few tinnies anywhere near this area. Accord’s base is inside fifteen stories of glass and steel, because of course it fucking is, and Faultline brings us around to the service entrance.  
  
They’ve laid out the fucking red carpet for us. Two mooks stand beside a lift, with another six standing around the small space. They’re dressed in black suits, with body armour beneath the jacket and a full-face helmet on their head, and each of them is carrying an assault rifle. They’re stood with military precision on either side of the elevator, which opens just as we step out of the van.  
  
A vision of beauty steps out, one that makes me sick to my stomach. A blonde woman in a pretty yellow-gold dress walks towards us, her every pace an example of elegance. I automatically raise myself onto my hind legs as she approaches, standing tall in the presence of such refined beauty. Her hair is immaculate and her make-up would make professional painters throw down their paints and weep. She’s wearing an elegant mask that sits over her upper face, leaving her yellow lipstick and eyeshadow the only visible sign of her efforts but I just know that beneath her mask every centimetre of her face has been sculpted to perfection.  
  
Shit. She’s the spitting image of Jessica.  
  
I really should have expected this; I saw it almost everywhere we went. Powerful men value their accessories, and you can’t have a better accessory than a woman who meets your exact standards of beauty, and can’t refuse anything you ask her to do. They’re treated like dolls, to be dressed up however their owners see fit. It’s the only life open to most of them, unless you count shooting heroin underneath a bridge as living. The world isn’t kind to beautiful women, so they seek out the least brutal monsters for protection. Accord doesn’t look like he’s any different.  
  
Then again, I was wrong about Jessica. She was far too tough to be tied to Dicko, though he probably paid for her bioware. Maybe this woman is like her; a total fucking psychopath.  
  
She steps up to Faultline with a grace and elegance that drives me wild, as her yellow ballgown swishes along the concrete floor and her high heels click and click. She stands in front of us, her hands clasped in front of her in a way that’s somehow both demure and authoritative, and looks us up and down. Looks me up and down.  
  
“Your punctuality is appreciated, Faultline. I see you have new members.”  
  
Fucking hell, even her voice is like molten honey. Calm down, girl. This is exactly the kind of shit that got you into this mess.  
  
“Is that a problem, Citrine?”  
  
“It is not. If you would follow me, Accord is waiting.”  
  
She turns and leads us to the elevator, her heels clacking against the ground as her tight little arse sways from side to side. For fuck sake! I follow on two feet and we all cram into the elevator. It’s a pretty tight fit with six people inside, two of whom are me and Gregor, but Citrine still manages to keep up her unassailable bubble of personal space. The elevator climbs and climbs to the very top floor, and Citrine leads us through a short corridor to a set of double doors of some expensive wood, flanked by two suits who open it for us. As I look into the office, I realise that it’s so much worse than I thought.  
  
Accord’s seated behind a wooden desk, wearing a white suit, a black shirt, and an intricate silver mask that was set into a stony expression. The entire city is spread out behind him, framed by a pair of red curtains. To his side, are yet more Jessicas. Young women dressed in monochrome ballgowns, their faces half-hidden beneath elegant masks, and a few men in tuxedos. They are all young, and they are all beautiful. They flank Accord like an honour guard, and Citrine steps up to stand behind Accord’s right shoulder, sealing her position as the head bitch.  
  
We line up opposite them, two very different groups facing off against each other. Faultline steps forward, her armour a more practical kind of immaculate than the Jessicas’ ballgowns, before coming to a stop six feet from Accord’s desk.  
  
“Faultline,” the diminutive figure begins. His mask moves as he speaks, shifting and changing with his words and expressions. The process seems entirely mechanical, and it freaks me the hell out.  
  
“Your group has expanded since we last spoke. The girl must be Labyrinth, but I do not recognise the other.”  
  
The eyes in his mask have shifted now, and they lie squarely on me. I straighten up ever so slightly; I’ve put on a show for men like him before, I can do it again.  
  
“Khanivore is a new member we acquired in Philadelphia. She’s Brute and a limited Mover.”  
  
“I had surmised as much. What reason do you have for visiting my city?”  
  
In an instant his eyes shoot back to Faultline, and his mask shifts from a contemplative look to the neutral expression that he had maintained since the meeting began. There’s so much tension in the room I’m sure I could cut through it with my claws.  
  
“Khanivore has a medical issue. We intend to bring her to Blasto, and accept contracts of opportunity for as long as the consultation lasts. It shouldn’t take longer than a week.”  
  
Accord sits in silence for a few moments more, his mask whirring and turning, before speaking again.  
  
“Why do you intend to go to Blasto? There are commercial healers, I even have one in my employ.”  
  
He gestured with his left arm to a man in a green tuxedo with a snakelike mask.  
  
Again, Faultine speaks for me. It’s not like we have any other option.  
  
“The problem is not an injury, but rather that Khanivore’s organs are not capable of maintaining her body. A healer could restore those organs to their natural state-“  
  
“But they couldn’t fix the underlying issue. I see.” Accord interrupted Faultline, who managed to keep her composure.  
  
“Your plans do not sound like they have the potential to interfere with my own, however your contracts could put yourself at odds with my organisation.”  
  
Faultline is silent. The air isn’t right for a fight, but I still tense up.  
  
“There is a man in the Hotel Commonwealth, one Demyan Kuznetsov. He has been pestering my organisation for weeks, trying to acquire our services for a paltry task. You will speak to him. I do not require a finders fee, simply the conclusion of his business in Boston.”  
  
Faultline mulls over his words for a few moments, but it’s not like he has given us a choice.  
  
“Forgive me if I am speaking out of turn,” Faultline speaks with almost imperceptible reluctance, “but if this man has been disturbing your organisation, then why is he still alive?”  
  
The slightest flicker of a grin on his mask. Intentionally or not, Faultline is playing to his ego.  
  
“Mr Kuznetsov is well connected overseas. He is a Colonel in the Red Gauntlet.”  
  
Military, or perhaps not. Red Gauntlet sounds more like the name you’d give a PMC.  
  
“I understand,” Faultline responds.  
  
“Then our business is concluded.” Words spoken with more finality than I’ve ever heard.  
  
“Citrine will escort you out.”  
  
The golden-haired vision actually curtsies to Accord, even though she’s standing behind him, and walks over to us, her heels sounding out perfectly equidistant clacks against the marble floor. Faultline turns to follow her, and we follow Faultline. Gregor is still holding Labyrinth’s hand, as he has been this whole time, and Newter makes the effort to walk on both feet, rather than his usual four limbed crawl. We keep up the charade even as the heavy wooden doors are closed behind us, even as the lift opens to reveal the eight armed guards still standing in the exact same positions.  
  
Citrine walks us to our van, and stays to watch as we pull out. Only when the metal shutters of the service entrance begin to creep down does she turn to walk back to the lift, a golden vision fading from sight.  
  
Once she’s away, we all let out the breath we’d been holding in. Newter begins to chuckle to himself befoe letting out a wordless cry of frustration.  
  
“God! That was fucking horrifying!”  
  
“Language,” Gregor scolds him, looking pointedly at Labyrinth.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
He’s not wrong. There was something unnatural about that meeting, something it took me a while to figure out. Most people like Jessica, like Citrine, are kept around for sex. Sure, their owners like to put on all sorts of window dressing to make them look just right, but, in the end, they’re just getting off on being in control. Accord's girls didn’t look like that. They were all beautiful, but it was a cold and impersonal beauty. Men like Dicko liked their things to be perfect so that they could see the envy in others eyes and fulfil their own fantasies of controlling something much more beautiful than themselves.  
  
Accord just wants perfection, and I don’t think he’ll ever settle for anything less.


	11. Blastocyst: 2.03

The meeting with Accord only took a few minutes, but it left us shattered. Part of me feels a little guilty, we wouldn’t even be in this city if it wasn’t for me, but I try and stop that line of thinking. It won’t lead to anything good. I’m here now and, for whatever reason, Faultline and her crew have decided to help me along. I’ll still have to foot the bill for Blasto, but that’s only fair. We’re heading there now, to the first step in contacting the mysterious tinker.  
  
Blasto’s a ghost. People know which turf is his, Back Bay apparently, but nobody knows where exactly he hangs out. Every now and then some men will show up at businesses, demanding a cut of the profit in exchange for protection from the other gangs. Any group that did make a move in his territory would find eyes looking at them through the sewers, and those few that stayed usually just disappeared after that. Nobody’s found any bodies so far.  
  
The thing is, those men need to answer to someone. Someone needs to be out there as the public face for Blasto’s operation, if only so people know who’s in charge. Faultline’s on the phone to her fixer now, asking the overpaid guide to set up a meet with the man in the Hotel Commonwealth, and to confirm that our meeting with Blasto’s Lieutenant is still going ahead. Rotten Apple, I think she’s called. Or Poison Apple or Applesauce or Cider. Girl’s got a theme, is what I mean.  
  
Apparently this part of Boston is called Back Bay. It’s quite nice, lots of brickwork that’s still in good nick and a fair bit of statues. There aren’t any of the tags or gang colours I’d expected, but then Boston doesn’t seem to go in for that sort of thing. Their crime is a bit different to the Estate gangs; they keep their sickness hidden behind closed doors. But a pot with a lid will always boil over, and Boston’s seen its fair share of open warfare between the Gangs. Gregor’s talking us through the history now, as the only one of us with the patience for that sort of thing.  
  
Apparently, Blasto had made his name in this huge fuckoff turf war a while back. He’d made something called the Woad Giant, a right huge bastard who’d just kind of stood there menacingly. It’d been killed in the end, but I can understand the sentiment behind it. Grab a big enough stick, and nobody will fuck with you. It’s worked; that creepy bugger Accord hasn’t made a move on South Boston since. I just hope making huge fuckoff giants translates into life support systems.  
  
Faultline pulls the bus up into an alleyway besides a pub, a simple brick building with frosted glass windows. It’s a little bit nostalgic, though much too old-school. The place has a sign on the door saying that it’s closed for the day, but that doesn’t matter to us. That’s the thing about this costume lark; you can’t just meet in a railway station or a shopping centre, everything has to be done all cloak and dagger.  
  
Once again, it’s Faultline who steps out first. She’s a born leader, charismatic in ways I never was. In ways I guess I never will be. That suits me just fine; I never was much of a leader anyway. Just point me at a fight and I’m happy. I’m beginning to wonder though, how much of that came about because I could only feel through fighting? Have I turned myself into an addict?  
  
Fuck knows. No time to think of that now anyway.  
  
The pub is exactly as I expected; wooden floors and furniture set underneath a low beamed ceiling. Or it might just be a normal sized ceiling and I’m the one that’s too tall. I drop to all fours and pace forwards directly behind Faultline. As I expected, the only people in the bar are obvious mooks in jackets and flat caps and a couple of unnaturally shaped trenchcoats standing stock still in the corner.  
  
Servitors. It’s been a while.  
  
Both stand about six feet tall, their features concealed beneath a long trenchcoat. The faces look human enough, but I recognise the glassy expression in their eyes and the million subtle oddities. These things were never human, or at least weren’t made from a corpse. My practiced eye looks them up and down, noting the strange bend on their legs to allow for leaping attacks and the slight distortion where their arms might give way to extended swords of sharpened bone. Obvious leapers, getting up and close to their targets and controlled by simple release triggers or pheromones. No way their control systems are up to spec, not unless this Blasto has managed to develop Affinity.  
  
They’re well made, which is encouraging, and both unique, which isn’t. If Blasto can’t reliably replicate results then I’m a little fucked.  
  
I’m so caught up in this little taste of home that I don’t notice the crew moving over to a corner booth, while Faultline goes to sit with a woman in a brown hood with green highlights. She’s probably in her mid-twenties, and looks a little flighty to be a gang Lieutenant. I guess powers are the great equaliser.  
  
I move over to sit on the floor near the rest of the Crew, while Faultline handles the introductions.  
  
“Poison Apple. It’s been a while.”  
  
“It has, though it’s Bad Apple now. I changed it since your job for us, just can’t seem to settle on one that fits right.”  
  
One of the goons comes over to take drinks orders. Newter asks for some mixed thing, while Gregor declines but asks for some orange juice for Labyrinth. I very quickly look over at the taps, before pointing at the Guinness. The mook understands, and comes back in a bit with the drinks, as well as something for Rotten Apple. The Guinness hits me hard; It’s been a while since I could actually taste alcohol. I nurse the pint rather than polishing it off, no telling how long this’ll take.  
  
“So, Faultline, what business do you have with Blasto?”  
  
“Medical support. Khanivore over there,” I give the indecisive woman a little wave, “has organs that are incapable of supporting her body. Blasto seemed like the best option.”  
  
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she doesn’t sound it, “but we don’t do medicals, and our equipment doesn’t work on Parahumans.”  
  
Faultline looks over to me, an unspoken request for permission. We knew Blasto was elusive coming into this, and so we worked out how we could draw the Tinker in. I nod my head, just once.  
  
“Khanivore isn’t a parahuman. She’s a human brain spliced to a bioengineered creature. Her organs are failing because they lack the technical support they used to have.”  
  
Applesauce is staring at me now, looking me up and down like it’ll make any difference at all. You can’t understand me you shit-for-brains idiot. You’re not even a scientist. The only way you’ll know, is by kicking it up to your boss.  
  
“Come over here.”  
  
Poison Apple’s talking to me now, and she’s not being very polite. I pad over slowly, before deciding that there’s no need to be friendly. I raise myself up onto my hind legs, towering over the little bug. I’m closer now, and I can see the subtle signs of drug use on her skin, feel it from her scent. I take a step forwards, and bang my head against a ceiling beam.  
  
Felling more than a little silly, I lower myself slightly and amble over to the big girls table.  
  
“Who made you?” She’s addressing me, so I answer. It’s not my fault if the answer comes out as a low and menacing growl.  
  
“Khanivore is mute,” Faultline comes to my rescue before I do anything stupid, “and her origin is her secret to keep.”  
  
Apple Crumble leans back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling. She looks stressed out, like she’s balancing a dozen different things at once.  
  
“Do you know what my job in Blasto’s organisation is?” She’s looking at me now, but she knows I can’t answer. She must be looking for someone to vent to.  
  
“He’s a busy man, and incredibly clever,” is that admiration I hear in your voice, or something more?  
  
“He’s also dedicated to his work. It’s important, what he’s doing, and he doesn’t need distractions. My job is to keep distractions away, to let him continue with his work without being distracted by the territory, or the smaller squabbles. I should send you away, because I know you’ll just distract him.”  
  
There’s a but coming. The biggest and most obvious but I’ve ever seen. You’re in love with this scientist, aren’t you? I bet you cry yourself to sleep each night, hoping for a single word of praise. You see a present in me. A way to show your worth to him, in the hope that he’ll notice his worth to you.  
  
“But I know he’d never forgive me if I let the chance to look at someone else’s work, wherever you’re from, pass him by. I’ll arrange a meeting, but there’s no guarantee he can help you.”  
  
I understand, and I show my understanding with a curt nod.  
  
Apple Cider scribbles an address onto a scrap of paper, and passes it over to Faultline who folds it into a pocket on her armour.  
  
“Come to this address tomorrow at eleven AM. The guards will let you through.”  
  
We leave the pub; I pause for a moment to down the rest of my pint. I’d heard once that Guinness was watered down outside of Ireland. Having just finished a pint, I can only conclude the American version is doubly watery. Labyrinth has managed to drink half her juice, a good sign, and Newter finished his drink within seconds of receiving it. Typical malchick, finishing far too early.  
  
As the van pulls away, Faultline gets another call. Her fixer has got back to her, having contacted Mr Kuznetsov on her behalf, and the Red Gauntlet Colonel wants to meet with us, as soon as possible. A venue is hurriedly sourced, and we make all haste to be there before our client. Faultline explains to me that it’s very strange for things to go this fast, and that the Russian must need a job done quick. That suits us just fine, she said, it puts him on the back foot when negotiating a price.  
  
It turns out that even Boston has its share of abandoned buildings. I’m not surprised; sometimes businesses fail. The fixer, that overworked little saint, managed to find us an empty spot for the meet. It’s not pretty, just an abandoned warehouse with a few pieces of leftover furniture, but it’ll do. The contact is in a hurry, and he’s a soldier, he should be okay with roughing it. I am not, however, and have soon created a pile of musty cushions and mattresses. I’m going for the regal predator look, which is slightly ruined when Labyrinth comes to sit next to me but I’m not about to complain.  
  
Gregor sets himself down in an armchair, while Faultline sets up two seats opposite each other. Newter, for some unfathomable reason, decides to settle in the rafters, nestling among the roof struts like a damn pigeon. I think he’s trying to show how versatile we are as a team, but he could just be fucking about.  
  
I hear the sound of tyres on tarmac from outside, followed by the clack of smart shoes against the ground. First into the building are two men who perfectly fit the secret bodyguard look, with black suits, white shirts that are just big enough to allow hidden armour, and actual aviator sunglasses. They’re followed by a much more normal looking man, in a grey suit with a red tie and an overcoat that looks like it’s made of real wool. He sits himself down in the old armchair while his two guards position themselves on either side.  
  
“Colonel Kuznetsov,” Faultline begins, “I understand you are interested in hiring a team for a job.”  
  
“Madam Faultline,” his voice is silky smooth, with only the slightest hint of an accent. He himself looks to be in his mid-forties, with hair that is only starting to grey.  
  
“I have heard of your organisation. Mercenaries with a code. It is an interesting idea.”  
  
“Our ‘code’,” Faultine replies, keeping her voice level, “is what keeps us in business. We do not have the strength of your organisation, and our code is what allows us to operate with impunity on US soil.”  
  
“I understand the necessity, believe me. Besides, we are not as amoral as you might think. Our organisation is based around one key value; the idea that the military should not be answerable to the civilian. Our soldiers, whether parahuman or not, deserve the chance to die for their own cause, rather than for the cause of those incompetent federals in Moscow.”  
  
“And what does the Red Gauntlet need on American soil?”  
  
Kuznetsov gestures to one of his guards, who hands Faultline a dossier of information. It’s still weird watching everyone lug around these bits of paper.  
  
“We need you to intercept a prisoner transport. A man named Vladimir Gagarin is being transferred to Los Angeles by air. We need you to intercept his transport on the way to the airport.”  
  
Faultline sets the dossier to one side, preferring to get her information straight from the horse’s mouth.  
  
“What kind of resistance are you expecting?”  
  
“Local Police, maybe a few of those child soldiers of yours. I swear, the only difference between you Americans and the Yangban is better marketing.”  
  
Faultline laughs at the joke, though I don’t get it.  
  
“Are you sure? If Mr Gagarin is valuable to the Gauntlet, then he’ll probably have higher security.”  
  
Kuznetsov pauses for a moment, mulling over his words.  
  
“Mister Gagarin is not valuable to the Gauntlet, but he is valuable to one of our officers. He is the son of a General, here on holiday. Vladimir Gagarin is, of course, a false identity, but it is the only one you need. He was doing the ‘Grand Tour’ of America, looking at those strutting peacocks you call parahumans. In Los Angeles, the first stop on his tour, he killed a whore. That act caught up with him here, and he will soon be extradited back to California.”  
  
“And his father decided it would be cheaper to hire mercenaries to break him out than to pay a lawyer.”  
  
“Precisely. I had hoped to give the team more advanced warning, but I have been stonewalled by this 'Accord' and his Ambassadors. The convoy is scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow.”  
  
“I assure you, Colonel, that we can get the job done. However, a job at such short notice will cost extra…”  
  
Their conversation descends into a verbal duel that leaves me dumbstruck. They’re going at each other with knives and chains, all hidden behind a thin façade of politeness. Two numbers slowly edge closer and closer together. The flow of this invisible battle is subtle, but Kuznetsov’s number is moving a lot more than Faultline’s.  
  
To my side, I notice the pile of matrresses harden slightly. As I look down, I see rock slowly spilling out around Labyrinth, the comfortable surface twisting and deforming. It happens beneath my very hands, and the surface becomes hard and stony. Labyrinth herself is out of sorts, so I very gently pick her up and move her to the other side of the pile.  
  
The verbal duel ends, with our side the victor. The two combatants stand up and shake each other’s hand, each assuring the other that no hard feelings exist. One hundred and thirty thousand dollars, a sum worth any victory. This General must have deep pockets.  
  
Faultline calls us all down to hash out the details of the job, and to explain what she knows about Red Gauntlet itself. Apparently, they have a reputation for not backstabbing the people they hire, which is a very good thing indeed. They’re lead by a woman, which I wasn’t expecting, and have been known to make or break entire governments. Russia, more often than not, finds itself dancing to their tune. They’re a real damn megacorporation.  
  
They really are ahead of their time.


	12. Blastocyst: 2.04

We spend the night back at the safehouse. Gregor cooks us all some spag-bol. I just have the bol, but it’s still some lovely food. I can eat carbohydrates, in theory, but Khanivore simply isn’t able to make efficient use of them in the same way as proteins. If I had the tank, then it’d be fine, the mechanical stomach would be able to filter out the impurities, but without it I’m pushing this body to the limit. From there it’s an evening spent on the sofa, preserving as much energy as I can. It’s also a convenient excuse to trawl through American television.  
  
It’s alright, I guess.  
  
Their television is a little different to my own. Back home, back in my time, sci-fi was all the rage. Everyone knew that we were on the verge of breaking away from Earth, becoming a truly stellar species, and our television reflected that. Sci-fi became the norm, rather than the exception, and our themes were all about going out and conquering the great unknown. We knew things weren’t perfect, and we wanted them to be better. There’s none of that here.  
  
Most of the shows on this world are either contemporary, dealing with superheroes conquering their problems or formulaic police dramas about parahuman crime, or historical. There’s something fake about it all, something that doesn’t quite match up to the superhuman military-industrial complex I’ve seen so far and nothing that compares to the ruined New York skyline. These people watch an idealised version of their own time, sanitised and scrubbed of all the horrors of the modern world. Something that they can throw on the telly to drown out the gangs and the gunfire.  
  
Either that, or they lose themselves in history. That’s the second type of show, replaying the past glories of the golden age of the American Dream or looking back even further to the Revolution, to the Civil War, to the World Wars even to the Cold War. I don’t really get why people would want to relive those bloody times, but then my world’s never had to deal with Endbringers. Perhaps they like looking back to a time when humanity’s only problems were those humanity created. More to the point, those problems were solved. The Allies won, and the Union and NATO and all the rest. It reminds these people that some problems can be solved, it’s just a shame they can’t see the future looking any brighter.  
  
We spend the evening there, all five of us, watching some big-budget film about a chivalric man in a world that doesn’t value chivalry, putting all his time and effort into attracting a woman who turned out to be worth far less than his expectations of her. He died in the end, killed by the changing world, and the world moved on from the man out of time. I can sympathise a little. As the others leave, I stay and surf through a few more channels, before turning off the little black box and falling asleep.  
  
The next morning sees most of the crew staying behind, relaxing in the safehouse. Blasto is a known quantity, which makes him reasonably trustworthy, and there’s no need for a show of force from our end. Faultline ends up being the one to drive me to the meet; she is my boss, and a respected figure in the underworld. The others are quite happy to stay behind, and they understand that this matter is more than a little private.  
  
Gregor talks about taking Labyrinth for a walk along the river, while Newter decides to go explore the city’s rooftops. From how Faultline reacts, I can see how this is normal. They’re cooped up here with nothing to do, so why not hit the streets and see the local scene. I’d probably join them, if I looked even remotely human. Instead, me and Faultline clamber into the van and set off for Back Bay yet again.  
  
Blasto’s evil lab is not what I’d expected from a mad scientist, though, given that I’d been expecting some kind of mad castle covered in tesla coils and neon signs, I was always going to be disappointed. Instead, Apple Pie’s address leads us to an abandoned brewery in Back Bay, sporting the faded logos of some local booze. From the outside, nothing seems amiss, but I spot the servitor-birds that line the roofs. They’re indistinguishable from regular birds, even flittering about occasionally, but they never leave the building. Without affinity, I’d wager they have digital cameras implanted behind the eyes.  
  
Sure enough, the metal door on the side of the building lifts up as we approach, exposing a loading bay with just enough space for our van between two unmarked box trucks. Bad Apple is waiting for us there, flanked by two of the ambush-servitors and four hulking things engineered from what looks like ursine stock crossbred with some kind of saurian. The work is a little shoddier than I’m used to, but I guess that’s what I should expect from a man whose pulling his geneering knowledge out of thin air.  
  
Faultline’s out first again, it takes me a while to work the handle to the side door, but the servitors noticeably tense up as I approach. I guess they’re just sentient enough to recognise an alpha bitch when they see one. The two brawler-servitors visibly bristle, and only back down when Poison Apple gives them a terse hand signal. Rudimentary friend/foe system based on visual cues, and a preprogrammed package of approved signals. It’s the sort of thing most combat menageries abandoned years ago, ever since affinity became practical. The real cutting edge now is on networked affinity consciousnesses, without the need for paired neurons. The true Noosphere.  
  
“Khanivore,” Rotten Apple speaks after my successful display of dominance, “our creatures don’t seem to like you.”  
  
And well they shouldn’t, little thing. For the same reason the laptop would dislike the supercomputer.  
  
She waits for me to respond, before realising there’s no point. I’m mute, remember?  
  
“Blasto is waiting for you inside. Follow me.”  
  
Now this is more like it. The main floor of the brewery is filled with dozens of bubbling vats, ranging in size from a pint glass through one of the brewery’s old mixing vats, taking up roughly half of the entire space. The quality varies as well. Some vats are simply barrels or bathtubs, but a few are shiny, glass and surrounded by machinery. Those are the ones I want. If Accord’s place was a temple to order, then Blasto’s lab is a tribute to the primordial chaos that all life emerged from.  
  
The man himself is hurrying about, clearly more interested in his current project than this meeting. Nothing about him screams cape. His clothes are typical of a scientist, with a plain white labcoat over practical and comfortable clothing, and nothing about him even looks a little mad. He doesn’t appear to be wearing a mask. Two chimpanzees step up to us with sprayers in their hands, dousing us in the same pheromones that litter this place. I can taste them in the air. An even more rudimentary friend/foe system than hand signals. It’s the little puff of liquid that has Blasto first notice us, that and Rotten Apple’s polite cough.  
  
He books it towards me like a man possessed, and I instinctively raise myself onto two legs, ready to claw the fucker to shreds if he so much as tries anything. Then I spot the look in his eye. He’s fascinated by me; with the same lustful look I’ve seen on the scientific colleagues other Predators occasionally brought to see Khanivore. The ones who took restrictive but high-paying corporate jobs, rather than throwing themselves into pit-fighting. I’m used to being looked at like a commodity, in a very real sense I am one, but it’s strange seeing it from this perspective.  
  
Faultline’s stands off to one side as Blasto circles me, brushing his fingers along my flesh and bone with no respect for personal space. I can see her smirking, even under her helmet. As Blasto circles me the second time, I drop my head level to his own and offer him a grin with far more teeth than strictly necessary. Fortunately, the gene-engineer knows what a predator looks like, and jumps back a few feet. He’s literally speechless, until Faultline shakes him out of it with an outstretched hand and a polite introduction.  
  
“Blasto, thank you for seeing us at such short notice. This is Khanivore.”  
  
“Beautiful…”  
  
The man is murmuring to himself, barely looking at Faultline as he shakes her hand. He only has eyes for me, which is no doubt pissing off Apple over there. I hold out my hand like a dainty young lady, if we’re going to be formal about it then I may as well go all out, but he just pokes about my claws instead of kissing it like a gentleman. Applesauce coughs into her hand, bringing the easily-distracted geneticist back to his senses.  
  
“Sorry. Khanivore, isn’t it?” I nod, “I am Blasto, and I understand you have something of a unique problem.”  
  
I nod, and point at the only one of the room’s many whiteboards that isn’t currently covered in notes. There are even a few boards made of some sort of slate, with little white sticks instead of pens. Blasto moves over to the board, rubbing out a sketch of some sort of DNA and hands me a marker. I outline my organs in as much detail as I dare, listing the functions each is capable of performing on its own, and the functions that needed a suspension tank. Blasto’s looking at the list with barely contained glee, particularly when I list the stimulant glands.  
  
“Masterful! But I can see why you need my help.”  
  
Good. He’s slipped right past awe and into some kind of creative zen state.  
  
“These vats you see around you are what I use to grow my creations, keeping them fed and sustained throughout the process. It seems that what you need is a vat capable of maintaining an already existing body. That should make some things easier, but others a lot harder. I will need a few tissue samples, and as much technical information as you can provide. And an MRI.”  
  
That last part was said at a stammer. He really wants to see me naked, eh? Good. Should keep the price down, and I seriously doubt this amateurish operation will be able to recreate Khanivore. I wasn’t the work of one man, or even one field of science. I’m the product of surgery, engineering, geneering and a dozen smaller fields all combining to make something that can’t be just grown. Blasto may be able to get a couple of good genes out of me, but Khanivore is so much more than just her genes.  
  
‘Before I agree to anything, what are you planning?’ I wipe off my notes from the board, watching the light leave Blasto’s eyes, and write my ultimatum.  
  
“I need to understand your organs in order to adapt a tank for your use. I have vats that are large and sophisticated enough to work without maintenance,” he gestured towards one of the newer tanks, “but, without understanding your body’s chemical make-up, the liquid is just so much water.”  
  
Apple coughs into her hand, and Blasto adds an addendum.  
  
“I also can’t part from it without significant payment.”  
  
“Thirty thousand,” his common sense pipes up from across the room.  
  
‘15’  
  
Faultline won’t help me with this negotiation. This is my money I’m spending on this. My share of the Philadelphia job. I can afford thirty but I don’t much want to.  
  
“Twenty-eight thousand.”  
  
I don’t even know what I’ll spend the money on. It’s not like I can go out shopping or anything. I just know I want as much of it as possible. Maybe I’ll make a pile of it, like a damn dragon!  
  
‘18’  
  
Money can’t buy you happiness, but it can buy you security. It can keep you in booze and in whole cows worth of ground beef. I never spent money as Sonnie, never got anything from luxuries and we never stayed in one place long enough for furniture, so why not live it up now?  
  
“Twenty-five thousand.”  
  
The point is that if I want to sleep on a bed of hundred dollar bills then I should bloody well be able to! This is America, for fuck sake! Time to end this.  
  
’20, a blood sample, a cheek swab and an MRI.’  
  
“Deal!” Blasto answers for his subordinate, and I shake his hand before she can get a word in edgeways. Game, set and bloody match!  
  
I spend the next few hours prostituting my body to Blasto. His needle couldn’t pierce my hide, but the skin next to the exoskeleton is slightly weaker than the rest, especially at the moment, and he manages to draw a pint or so of blood. I decide to offer him a little gift, and the samples are separated depending on which hormone or chemical compound I had running through my bloodstream at the time. We get a good dialogue going, as good as it can be with one party writing on a whiteboard, about the different biomechanical systems in my body, such as the arterial clamps and redundant muscles.  
  
The cheek swab is simple, just a tab of balsa wood run against the inside of my cheek. There’s not much in the way of valuable data in there, just the composite DNA used to make Khanivore. The true beauty of this form lies in what we did with the DNA, how the rest of the Predators shaped and moulded the organs into place, splicing them in with a mixture of circuitry and grown tissue. To find that you’d need an MRI, but there doesn’t appear to be one in the brewery.  
  
Blasto laughs when I ask, but there's a bitter edge behind it. Apparently, a new MRI scanner of the sort we need generally goes for around a couple mil. Way out of the range of a cash-strapped supervillain. Fortunately, there’s a medical centre on the outskirts of Blasto’s turf, whose staff _are_ within the means of a cash-strapped supervillain. He has one of them on a sort of bribery-based retainer, for whenever he wants to get an idea of what’s inside his creations.  
  
We can’t go there in the day, obviously, so Blasto sets us up in a little break room set up in the Brewery’s old offices, while Faultline calls the crew to tell them we’ll be back late. It’s a long wait, it was morning when we arrived, and me and Faultline spend it watching telly in the brief moments between Blasto’s questioning. After a while, Crab Apple comes by with some food, though she looks like she’d rather be doing almost anything else. On the whole, it seems Blasto’s squeeze is treated better than Accord’s, but she seems a lot less happy about her lot in life. Blasto did give her a peck on the cheek so there is some connection between him and her, but it seems she’d prefer a little more.  
  
Blasto keeps prying me with questions, but I’m not sure how much I want to reveal. I tell him I was designed for combat by an out-of-country organisation, and I drop little hints about my internal structure, but in time he drifts back to his other products and we simply wait out the time.  
  
After hours, and two films imported from a parallel dimension whose novelty wore off as soon as we realised they were superhero flicks, we all clamber into the back of one of Blasto’s box trucks, the one not filled with quick-release cages, and set off through the narrow streets. This time I can’t see the city, or much of anything really. Would it kill them to put some lights in the back of this thing? We go from the back of this truck straight into the sterile white corridors of a hospital, passing night-nurses who very deliberately ignore our presence.  
  
The MRI is pretty much as expected, but a lot larger than I’m used to. Score one for future technology, I guess. Still, I can just about fit in, but the doctor unhappily informs me that they can’t slide me in as normal. Apparently I’m too fat, lies and slander, and instead I need to clamber in. I’m able to fit most of my torso in there, which is the only bit that matters, and I even keep my crest from scraping along the roof. I hear the click of a smartphone behind me, as some dead-woman-walking catches a pic of me in a very compromising position. Fortunately, the doctor hurries them all behind a screen to complete the procedure.  
  
The process a lot longer than I remember, but soon me, Blasto and the doctor are looking at my internal organs laid bare, while Rotten Apple is laughing at something on her phone. Blasto’s over the moon, pointing at all sorts of organs and asking me what each of them does. He shakes my hand, and doesn’t even wince as I give him a firm grip. He’s happy, ecstatic even, and promises to have the tank set up in a couple of days. I get the feeling that the MRI wasn’t nearly as necessary as the blood test, but who am I to deny him his pound of flesh?


	13. Blastocyst: 2.05

Another day, another unmarked van. I swear, it looks like I’ll be spending half my life in these bloody things. I guess I used to spend my whole life in the back of a lorry, but at least I could walk about in my old body. We’re waiting in an alleyway, myself, Gregor and Labyrinth waiting for word from Netwer. The orange-skinned malchick is currently hiding on the rooftops near a local police station, waiting to give us the word to go. For all his boisterousness, he can be pretty hard to spot at times and he’s easily capable of following a convoy through bustling city traffic.  
  
“Convoy’s on the move. A van and two cars, all with Police markings.”  
  
Newter’s voice comes through my headset. I don’t have ears in the usual sense, but we were able to jimmy something together. I hear Gregor’s voice twice over as he radios confirmation back, his voice only slightly faster than its electronic counterpart. Faultline sends acknowledgement as well. She’s waiting at the ambush point with a motorcycle, ready to spring the trap or move to another location.  
  
Newter guides us through the convoy’s movements, and I follow them on a paper map taped to the wall, with blue lines showing the most common route to the airport. The Red Gauntlet had been able to tell us what precinct their man was held in, but not the route they would be taking. We need to stay mobile and adaptable, unlike the preplanned Philadelphia job. That means a simple plan that we can adapt on the fly, and three mobile groups ready to move whenever we’re needed.  
  
“Convoy’s moving down the predicted route. They really have no idea who this guy is.”  
  
Speaking of which. Gregor shifts the car into gear and sets off, guided both by our existing plan and by Newters reconnaissance. The climber is still shadowing the convoy, while we’re following at a safer distance the next block over. It’s a good thing Boston’s built on a grid system; this’d never have worked in London. As it stands, we can follow the convoy from a safe distance, with the only risk being that they’ll spot a bright orange teenager leaping from building to building. It’s less of a risk than you’d think.  
  
We wait for the convoy to make its way through the streets then, about a kilometre from Faultline, Gregor brings us right a block, and keeps us directly behind the convoy. I keep my head down and Gregor is wearing a hoodie, just in case they’re looking backwards. Luckily, the traffic is dense enough, even at two in the afternoon, that we can just blend in with the flow.  
  
I can feel the anticipation of the fight building and building as we draw closer to the ambush point. I know it’s not healthy, that I’ve spent years feeling nothing except when I was fighting and that I’ve turned myself into an adrenaline junkie, but none of that matters now. Someday I’ll have to find a way to live beyond conflict, or at least a healthier way to spend my time between fights, but for now I have people counting on me, and the promise of a fifth of a hundred thousand dollars waiting for me.  
  
Labyrinth’s not up front, her mask’s just too distinctive, instead sitting in the back with me. She doesn’t look tense or anything, but I can see she’s ready to go. It’s strange, reconciling her strength and her frailty, but I know that if we get into an extended fight, there’s nobody in the Crew I’d rather have by my side. Her power had been working on the alley we were waiting in, and part of the van’s floor has become weathered and aged. Wherever she goes, and whatever she brings with her, it isn’t a healthy place.  
  
“They’re coming into position in five, four…”  
  
Newter starts counting down, and my heart begins to beat faster and faster as I push my body into an active state. Subtle hormones and stimulants flow through my veins, triggering automatic responses within my body. I begin to scrape my claws against the floor of the van like an eager animal, and my mouth opens unconsciously, exposing a row of gleaming teeth. I haul myself forward, ready to swing open the van’s side door at a moment’s notice.  
  
Ahead of us, right before the convoy passes her alleyway, Faultline springs the trap. I can’t see it, obviously, but I can hear the crack of asphalt and the squeal of the convoy’s brakes. Cities grow and expand over time, which means that most are inevitably built on top of yet more city. Sewers, tube lines, basements or even the ruins of what came before, it’s all resting just beneath our feet. Faultline’s waiting on one knee in an alleyway off to the side, her hand placed on the ground. With a thought, she sends cracks shooting through the ground and under the road, creating a sinkhole from one end of the street to the other.  
  
The convoy now has no choice but to turn back, so Gregor swings the van to the left, blocking off one possible avenue of retreat, while I slide the door open and leap from the still moving vehicle. I land on the back of one of the police cars with a sickening crunch of twisted metal, and simply walk over it to approach the van. It doesn’t last, obviously, and the buckling metal of the roof under my weight is enough to send two bruiseboys rolling out of the car, clutching pistols in their fists.  
  
The cops here are a lot less armoured than I’m used to, and apparently a lot less well equipped. I don’t know what calibre they’re shooting at me with, but it’s obviously not enough. I leap from the car onto one of them, slamming her into the tarmac and throwing her gun aside. Without the usual full-face visor, the police are a lot more human looking, and much more obviously terrified. I grip her pistol in an enormous claw, and toss it aside in an under arm throw before slicing her pepper spray canister from her belt. There’s nothing she can do to me now, and her friend is only just rounding the car.  
  
I still can’t see the bastard, but I can hear him well enough. With a flick of my tail, I slam him against the steel doors of the van. I hear a rib crack, and he slides to the floor. I can take my time. As Gregor steps out of the car with Labyrinth in tow, Netwter leaps down into the midst of the fray, and Faultline strides out of her alleyway I leap back on top of the now ruined police car, looking at the wounded officer with barely contained glee.  
  
Another pistol is tossed aside, followed shortly by its wielder, and I’m left standing before the prisoner transport. In the background, I can hear one of the officers making a call to the Boston PRT, but that shouldn’t matter if we’re fast enough. These millicents are well trained, but we have a massive edge on them. I’m confronted by the locked door of the van. We could wait for Gregor to concoct some acid to melt it, or wait for Labyrinth to gain control and open it, but those methods take time.  
  
Instead I simply drive a closed fist into the door, denting it, then turn on my heels to hit it with the full force of my tail. The metal parts easily, and I feel the tail pass into empty air. The lock is gone now, pulverised by four interlocked points of bone, and, though the door doesn’t immediately part, it would be a simple matter to rip it apart with my hands. I pull my tail out, preparing to whirl around and do just that, only to find my tail held in a cast iron grip.  
  
I feel a horrible force pulling me back, and I fall flat onto my arse, my tail lifting off the grooves in my back. I can’t see what’s happening behind me, but the metal doors of the van seem to flow away from my tail and into something, something just out of sight. I cannot talk to warn the others, so instead I roar, a wordless sound of rage that echoes against the streets and sends bystanders scattering. The unseen force loosens its grip just for a moment and I strike. I can’t get my whole tail out, but I can spit it and remove it two tendrils at a time, making it smaller than the force’s grip.  
  
Rather than going straight for the kill, I drive my tendrils against the ground and lift myself up, turning in the air until I’m standing on top of the ruined police car, looking down at the intruder. The first thing that I notice is that the interior of the van has been entirely padded, and the cringing figure in the back wearing the orange jumpsuit must be the Russian. I figure the other fellow must be the reason for the padding, from the way the metal doors are dissolving onto his arms.  
  
He looks like a shirtless teen, though that appearance is fast vanishing as the metal from the doors pours over him, forming muscles over his muscles and increasing his hight by at least ten centimetres. I growl at him, but remain on my perch. Faultline and the others will have dealt with the police commandoes in the first van soon enough, I just need to hold him until then. This prick’s made of metal; Faultline will split him like firewood.  
  
He steps out of the van and into the light, his metal skin lighting up in the sun. I step back on the police car until I’m standing on the highest point, towering over the little man. The little shit starts laughing to himself.  
  
“And here I was thinking this would be a boring shift.”  
  
He’s calm, either through training or a genuine lack of fear, and he’s growing in mass every second. He looks exactly like a teenager, if you ignore liquid metal coating his skin and the less human areas where the van doors are merging with his flesh. From his perspective, I have the sun at my back. That advantage will fade, so I strike fast. I’m not supposed to kill anyone, but this guy looks like he can take a hit.  
  
I send my tendrils shooting forward, embedding the sharpened shards of geneered bone into each of his limbs. He staggers when struck, and I leverage his confusion to bring him down to his hands and knees, before pressing his head into the road with a taloned foot. For a moment it looks like I have him pinned, but then I feel metal creeping along my bones as his arms shift into liquid forms that simply slide along my tendrils. Rather than risk having my tail getting caught again, I immediately withdrew and instead planted a heavy kick on his side. He’s heavier than he looks, and only slides a couple metres along the road.  
  
It’s enough, though, to keep him away from our target. I use my tendrils to leap over him, placing him in-between me and the prisoner but forcing him to keep his back to the van. He staggers to his feet, his knees reforming from liquid metal, and takes note of the obvious threat in front of him. He stares at me for a second, or, more specifically, at my chest, before trying to edge around me, talking as he goes.  
  
“Listen. I know your confused, but we can help you. I’m like you. I woke up with no memories, stuck looking like this. We can help you, the Protectorate can help you.”  
  
I move to try and block him from circling around me. I have the advantage in size, and a forest of blades held out in front of me, but he has the arrogance of those who believe themselves to be invincible. I’ve seen it before, overconfidence, and it always ends with the cocky shit’s head held high in my hand, in Khanivore’s hand. The only difference here is that this fucker is a little tougher, and he’s busy preaching when he should be fighting. Only a fucking idiot would think I’d switch allegiances after a few short sentences.  
  
“If you can’t talk, then we can find a way around it. You don’t have to live your life on the run! You don’t have to live your life alone!”  
  
He’s almost pleading at me now, practically begging me to change my ways and throw myself on the mercy on the government. Sorry, boy, but I’ve lived my life outside the system, free to do what I want and live with the consequences, and I’m not about to stop now that I’m finally free. I’m free from the tank, from the rings, from men like Dicko and every other bastard who though they could carve their way into my life. I’m free, and I’m going to stay that way.  
  
The manhole cover hits him by surprise, and in the face. The force of it nearly shears his jaw off, but rather than spinning away the disk of metal spins rapidly around the Ward’s face, until it looks like he's wearing a scarf of blackened metal. It’s funny, but it would be impolite to laugh.  
  
How fortunate, then, that I am not polite.  
  
The tin man looks pissed but he still speaks again, after his mouth reformes.  
  
“Dammit,” he mutters to himself, “you can’t say I didn’t try. Okay! Put your hands above your head and surrender! The Protectorate are coming!”  
  
Oh, I don’t doubt it, they’ll be here in minutes, but that’s a little too late for you, brass-balls.  
  
“The Protectorate are coming, Weld, as fast as they can in their little vans.”  
  
Faultline’s there, on the other side of Weld, with her hand resting against the floor. Cracks shoot along the pavement, and I wait for the limbless pieces of the metal man to fall to earth. I’m a little pissed when nothing happens, and very pissed when Gregor’s latest concoction of weapons-grade anaesthetic fails to put him down. In the background, I can see Newter carrying an unconscious Russian out of the Police van.  
  
“Faultline…” the metal man, Weld, sighs.  
  
“I’ve heard of you. So, you got to this one first.”  
  
Faultine laughed, but Gregor tensed in the background.  
  
“Khanivore is here by choice, as is Gregor,” good not to mention Newter, don’t need the Ward remembering we’re a man short, “we all want the same thing, Weld. We all have the same mystery to solve. The only difference between us is that when presented with a powerful enemy, we chose to fight them, while you chose to throw yourself at the feet of those in power.”  
  
“The PRT have nothing to do with the Case 53’s!”  
  
Faultline’s laughing. I get the impression she likes fucking with people’s heads.  
  
“Someone does. Someone with power, and governments are the most powerful groups of all. If you’re looking for answers, you won’t find them with the Protectorate.”  
  
“And how does freeing a murderer get you answers?”  
  
His tone is like acid, and he’s staring at Faultline with something close to hate.  
  
“It gets us money. Something we use to exchange for goods and services. Your lot are surprisingly good at stamping down on free enterprise.”  
  
The sound of sirens comes around the corner, and Faultine’s composure breaks once more.  
  
“Khanivore! Deal with them!”  
  
I don’t have to be told twice. I set off like a coiled spring, running along on all fours before leaping to the side of the building and guiding myself around the corner with my tail. Before me are two vans marked in PRT colours, with blue lights flashing overhead. I leap from the wall, and slam into the engine block of the lead van. The machinery crumbles under my weight and liquid petrol starts to spread across the road. The two drivers are unconscious, battered by their crushed cabin, and I step over them onto the roof.  
  
No doubt there was a team of highly armed commandos in there, just waiting for me to bust open their doors. Instead, I drive my tendrils into the roof and carve four furrows along its length, before simply jumping on the weakened room. I fall through, and onto a squad of six armoured soldiers. I strike out at them, no room for any sort of finesse, throwing my weight around until the six officers lie in a disorganised heap. The doors to the van fall apart with a stout kick, and slide along the pavement. As I step out, I hear a hissing sound behind me and turn in shock as some sort of foam bursts out of one of the soldier’s weapons.  
  
A globule lands on my hand and I try to wipe it off on the side of the van, only to feel it pulling against my arm. It’s some kind of fucking glue bomb! I manage to get my hand off the wall just in time, though the fingers are now fused together. In front of me, six more soldiers are scrambling out of a van, more glue guns aimed at me. I don’t know how to get out of this.  
  
One last roll of the dice. If they’re taking me down, I’m taking the bastards with me.  
  
Black acrid smoke fills the street, and my lunge forwards turns into a leap back as the ground beneath me is consumed by cascading volumes of foam. From my vantage point, I can see the roof of a white van off in the distance and I leap over to it, skipping off the piled traffic like a little girl crossing some stepping stones. The van is already moving when I arrive, and I’m barely able to run fast enough to leap in through the open side door, scrabbling for grip with my useless right hand before being pulled in by Gregor’s firm grip.  
  
I’m panting from exhaustion, and the tips of my tendrils have developed microfractures from Weld’s iron flesh, and the thick hull of the PRT vans. I can’t use them again. Not unless Blasto comes through. We’re all dead on our feet, five people crammed into the back of a van speeding off through the streets of Boston, leaving behind a scene of utter carnage.  
  
Five people, and sleeping beauty in the back.


	14. Blastocyst: 2.06

I lean back against the side of the van, rubbing my face in my hands. My right hand bumps uselessly against my crest. Right. Containment foam. My hand is covered in the stuff, and there are occasional flecks of it stuck to my tail. This has to be the most annoying handcuff I’ve ever seen. This small discomfort pales in comparison to the rest of my body. I used myself like a fucking battering ram against the Ward and the PRT, and I’m suffering because of it. My tendrils are riddled with microfractures, and small flecks of bone have come off the spikes. My chest is heavy, and my hearts are working overtime to push blood around my body.  
  
Blasto had better have come through, or my last act on this world will be to throttle him and his girl.  
  
The Russian in the back is slowly coming down from his Newter high. Fuck knows what kind of fever dreams the useless little shit’s been having, but I hope it was a bad trip. He’s certainly scared now, screaming his bloody head off. It’s like he’s never seen an orange kid, a guy with a translucent epidermis and a massive octopus monster before. Pussy.  
  
Ah, good, Newter’s put him to sleep again.  
  
Right now, we’re travelling through the streets of Boston at a sedate pace. Streets that are, so far, mercifully free of sirens or flying men. We left the response teams in quite a state, though it’s a shame I didn’t get to see Labyrinth bring down Weld. Apparently, he’s stuck in some kind of sick dentist’s chair or something. That girl’s head is in the weirdest places. It was strange seeing another one of us, another marked man. Though I guess I’m not really one of them, am I? I’m not a parahuman, and I’m fucking proud of it.  
  
Faultline told me about the funds Gregor and Newter have set aside to find the truth behind the Case 53’s. Apparently, the two donate a portion of their share towards research into the mystery; hiring private investigators, tracking down more 53’s, looking into endless rumours and speculation. That sort of thing. There are rumours, of course; conspiracies floating around the web about purchased powers and a group with a U as its symbol. The problem is one of sorting the dross from the gold, and turning speculation into knowledge.  
  
It’s a worthy aim, and I agree to contribute twenty-five percent of my earnings to this goal. Newter contributes a third of his share, and Gregor’s fronting sixty percent, but I have expenses that neither of them have to consider. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone, and the Crew isn’t the sort of group to take on burdens, so I will pay for Blasto’s machine, and for the food I need to survive. I want to be free, in every way that matters.  
  
But that’s a problem for later, a side project Faultline works on in-between jobs, and we have more pressing concerns. Speaking of, the van is slowing which probably means we’ve arrived at the meet. I haul myself to my feet, wincing at my aching limbs, and pick up the comatose murderer in my massive hand, tucking him under my shoulder. My tendrils are splayed out behind me, small flecks of containment foam preventing them from locking back into one tail. It’s a nuisance; I’m used to forgetting about the extra limbs and just slotting them into my back, but now they’re just sort of flopping about. With a Russian in one hand and the other foamed, I can’t open the door to the back of the van. Fortunately, Newter opens the door for me, holding it out in an exaggerated but gentlemanly manner.  
  
The Red Gauntlet are here, Colonel Kuznetsov and his two bodyguards, standing in front of a black SUV. The Colonel is apparently unarmed, but the two guards have brough assault rifles. Faultline strides in front of the rest of us to greet the Colonel, who looks at the bundle slung under my arm. He accepts Faultline’s offered handshake, but scowls at me.  
  
“Is he alive?” He sounds a little unconcerned about the health of our package.  
  
“He is,” Faultline confirmed with the same disinterested air, “though we had to sedate him. He was being… uncooperative.”  
  
A smile played across the mercenary’s face and, following an order from Faultline, I step forwards and dump Vladimir Gagarin at the foot of the three mercenaries. The Colonel kneels to check over the package, before standing once again.  
  
“How can I wake him?”  
  
Faultline looks back at Newter.  
  
“I gave him a light dose, just enough to keep him quiet. He just needs a shock; a loud noise or slap.”  
  
The mercenary looked over the sleeping murderer for a few moments, with his hands on his hips and a contemptuous look in his eye. He nudges the body with a foot before drawing it back and delivering a wicked kick to his side. Gagarin coughs and clutches his hand to his chest only to have it driven into his sternum by Kuznetsov’s knee, which pins the young man to the ground. In a flash a pistol appears in the soldier’s hand, pressed into the younger man’s skull.  
  
“Так, слушай сюда, говно мелкое. Нам пришлось заплатить двести тысяч долларов чтобы тебя вернуть. Двести тысяч, которые ты теперь должен Рукавице. Мы бы за тобой и не полезли, если бы твой папаша не приполз к нам на коленях, умоляя Рукавицу спасти его сыночка. Ты опозорил своего отца, себя и свою роту. Смотреть на тебя тошно, Лейтенант.”  
  
I don’t understand what he’s saying, but he doesn’t look happy. His two guards haul up the bruised and battered kid, practically throwing him into the backseat of the car. He’s joined by the Colonel, who enters far more sedately, and the two guards clamber into the front. The doors shut, and the Colonel winds down his window.  
  
“The money will be wired to your account, Faultline. A pleasure doing business with such professionals.”  
  
The car speeds off, leaving us standing around like a bunch of lemmings. Newter is the first to speak, letting out a short, sharp sigh.  
  
“Jesus! Anyone catch any of that?”  
  
Faultline turns to look at us, her posture showing her shock in spite of her helmet.  
  
“Just one word. Rukavitsa. They call her the Daughter of the Motherland; the strongest Parahuman in Russia and the leader of the Red Gauntlet. Whatever this was, it was a lot bigger than I thought.”  
  
That takes the wind out of our sails, but it doesn’t stop us clambering back into the van. We’re all a little quiet as we make our way to Back Bay, the sudden presence of geopolitics tends to have that effect on people, and I’m almost relieved when I spot some of Blasto’s leapers shadowing us from the rooftops. It seems that criminal gangs are now familiar and comforting. My life really is fucked.  
  
Blasto’s lab looms overhead, faded beer adverts and all. As before, the spy-birds notice our approach and open up the automated door, where Rotten Apple waits with two servitors. She leads us through to Blasto's lab, after chuckling at my foamed hand, and shows Newter, Gregor and Labyrinth into the lounge. Blasto is in his lab, kneeling over a collection of machinery set next to a modern-looking tank.  
  
“Blasto! Faultline and her pet are back!”  
  
Crab Apple shouts across the room, earning herself a permanent position on my shit-list, and Blasto looks up from his work, takes one glance at my foamed limb, and selects a bottle of green-ish goop from a whole rack of bottles, jam jars, syringes and buckets, each filled with some horrible liquid. He comes over and paws at my paw, before pouring about a tablespoon of liquid onto the cast, which begins to bubble and melt.  
  
“Fast acting bacteria,” he says, either catching my confused expression or just wanting to show off, “designed to eat through containment foam. Took me a while to get the mix right, I had to make sure the samples worked on a live subject.”  
  
Behind him, I see a shiver pass up Bad Apple’s body. Blasto circles me, applying small dabs of bacteria to the remaining foam. It tickles my skin, but doesn’t eat through. Once the foam has all dissolved, Blasto fetches a different bucket, mercifully full of water, for me to wash my hand in. The dead bacteria slides off my skin, along with the last remnants of the foam, and I follow Blasto over to the tank, which becons silently to me.  
  
“I have modified the tank according to your specifications, your blood and swab tests. It should be able to replicate the functions you described, including the limited regenerative properties, but I’d like to keep you overnight for observation, just to be sure.”  
  
This Blasto is not the bumbling scientist he appears to be. I’m no expert, but the tech appears to be a passable recreation of my old suspension pod.  
  
“I have also included a few luxuries; a tank of water to wash off any leftover suspension fluid, and a keypad you can use to type messages, which will be displayed on this screen and a screen on the inside of the pod. It can be connected to wifi, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”  
  
Handy, I suppose, and it gives me something to do when I’m stuck in the pod.  
  
“I recommend that you spend eight hours per day in this pod. That should allow you to spend up to two weeks away from it with fairly regular intervals, although you will need to make up for a third of that lost time.”  
  
That’s nice. Faultline’s crew seems like the type to roam, and I don’t want to be a handicap. Blasto looks me up and down, his expert eyes linering on my fractured sternum and tail.  
  
“You seem rather damaged. I recommend thirty-six hours of immersion, including the night spent in observation.  
  
That’ll be a bitch, but I can’t argue with the need.  
  
“Is she safe to transport in the tank?”  
  
Faultline now, asking the proper questions.  
  
“Perfectly safe. The tank’s battery should last from here to Brockton Bay, assuming that is your intention.”  
  
Faultline nods in agreement. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve spent hours stuck in the back of a lorry, but back then I was driving the fucking thing, albeit in a meat puppet. This is going to suck. Still, no point splitting hairs.  
  
I step into the pod. It’s not tall enough for me to stand, but I can crouch in it. Blasto points out a set of buttons by my right arm, controls for the machine, and directs me to the switch used to shut the pod. The glass door closes soundlessly, screwing itself in to create a perfect seal. With another button, a pinkish-red liquid seeps in from above, running down the side to pool on the floor. The liquid feels indistinguishable to water, and as it rises, my weight lifts off my feet as buoyancy takes over. The water passes my arms, and then my eyes, leaving me to see the world through a red haze.  
  
The liquid is designed to be neutrally buoyant, and so I simply float in place, my arms and legs close to my torso with my tail wrapped all around. I reach out to the controls with my left arm, and the water electrifies. I feel a distant tingling sensation that is almost numbing, as the fluid seeps in through my pores and merges with my bloodstream. The energy it contains travels through my body, catalysing a reaction that generates new cells to fuse bone and replace tissue. The system will never be able to handle anything major like a severed limb, unless the severed joint is recovered, but it will function well enough for routine maintenance.  
  
“How is it?” Faultline asks, her voice carried through the soundproof glass by a microphone and a speaker.  
  
‘It’s fine,’ I type back, ‘everything’s working as expected.’  
  
“Of course it is,” Blasto says, with barely contained pride, “I built it, after all.”  
  
“I’ll transfer the money from Khanivore’s account to yours. You should have it by this evening.”  
  
Faultline addresses Blasto, who simply nods as if the money is of no consequence. I get the feeling he sees money as a means to an end, if he sees it at all.  
  
“I’m going to take the others back to the safehouse. We’ll come pick you up in the morning, alright?”  
  
Faultline phrases it as a question, but we both know it’s the only option we have. I nod in the tank and she says her goodbyes, following Apple Sauce to collect the others. I spend a few hours just floating in the tank, alone with my thoughts. Blasto passes by on occasion, working on some creature or another, and occasionally I’ll catch his squeeze looking at me from the corner of her eye. As the light of the sun fades, and the brewery turns dark, Blasto comes up to the tank and looks me up and down before speaking.  
  
“I’ve been looking at your MRI scans. You truly are a beautiful thing, you know that right? I’m not talking about your genetics, though the DNA is an exceptional blend, but the placement of your organs. I grow my creations in vats much like this one, although enhanced with much more advanced technology, and I can usually produce something workable. The problem is that all I can do is grow them. Around a third of my creations fail to grow into anything resembling useful, while a further fifth have unexpected defects.”  
  
He pauses for a moment, resting his hand on the glass, and I can see the desperation in his eyes. It’s the same desperation I’ve seen on the faces of Wes, Ivrina, Jacob and all the others when they found some part of Khanivore that they just couldn’t fix. He flicks a cigarette out of his hand, some kind of narcotic, and takes a deep breath. He’s psyching himself up to say something.  
  
“There’s nothing random about you. Every organ is placed perfectly, set into place with exactly the right size and dimensions for your body, and yet your DNA is clearly that of a hybrid. I can’t think of anyone who could be that precise. No biotinker in the world could create something like you, and yet you don’t have a corona of any kind. You’re a mystery to me, Khanivore, and it’s driving me mad.”  
  
I’m stuck with a dilemma. Blasto seems alright, but he’s not part of the crew. What the hell am I supposed to do? This guy’s clearly driving himself nuts over me, and I’m not keen to be stuck in here when he snaps. There’s only one thing for it.  
  
‘You know Earth Aleph.’  
  
It’s a pain typing with only my left hand, but Blasto’s reaction is immediate.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
‘I’m not from there.’  
  
His face sinks again, before the wheels start turning in his head and he fixes me with a piercing stare.  
  
‘I was made by two bioengineers, a surgeon specialising in flesh-grafting and a hardware specialist for the suspension pod. My component parts were grown individually, and spliced together according to plans and blueprints. I was made as a pit-fighter, and I had eighteen victories to my name.’  
  
Blasto’s looking me up and down again, comparing my body with the MRI images pinned to the wall. The pieces start to fit together inside his mind.  
  
“And, on your world, people made more creatures like you?”  
  
For a moment I think about laughing. He’s such a typical fucking boffin beneath all the pretensions and the capes. He can’t see anything that isn’t twelve feet tall and waving about claws.  
  
‘Yeah. More pit fighters like me, controlled by a human pilot, as well as servitors made from uplifted animals. Dogs, dolphins but especially apes. We use them to keep our streets clean, or to do all those jobs that people just can’t be bothered to do anymore.’  
  
Blasto was entranced, probably making notes in his head.  
  
“Fascinating.”  
  
‘You’re missing the point. We were entertainers, and the uplifted animals, so similar to your creations, were the lowest rungs of our technology. There’s no future in building a better dog.’  
  
He’s indignant now, his arms folded in front of him.  
  
“I happen to think my creations are art. What can be more meaningful than creating life?”  
  
‘There’s a company back home, JSKP. They just launched a ship that will travel into the orbit of Jupiter. The ship is made from bone, stronger and lighter than any metal and grown into a single hull, without any welds or imperfections. This ship is carrying a hundred-metre-long sphere. It’s carrying a seed.’  
  
He’s listening with wide eyes.  
  
‘This seed will be placed in low orbit over Jupiter, where it will grow and expand through photosynthesis. In time, it will become a habitat, a fourteen-kilometre cylinder sitting in orbit over the planet, with forests of fronds stretching down into the atmosphere to collect electricity and power the habitat. It will be lit by a captured sunbeam, passing through the centre of the habitat, and will house thousands of He3 miners, who will ship the product back to Earth to fuel our civilisation.’  
  
‘My entire planet is fuelled by biotechnology. Our best AI’s are grown, not made, and our roads and buildings are built from polyps grown in orbit. Creatures like me are amusing enough, but we’re not what keeps the world spinning.’  
  
Blasto’s looking at me now, lost in his thoughts. He looks like he wants to respond, to rant and rave, but instead he simply turns and leaves me in the darkness.  
  
I close my eyes, and find sleep in the weightless chamber.  
  
In the morning, I’m woken by a tapping on the glass. Applesauce is there, peering at me through the glass, her phone in her hand.  
  
“You can hear me, right?”  
  
I nod.  
  
“Listen. Blasto’s been tearing himself up these past couple of days, ever since you had that MRI. Fuck, before then even. He’s been running himself ragged, losing his temper, losing his cool. It’s been worrying me, and it looked like you were just going to add to those worries.”  
  
Her upper face is concealed by her hood, but she looks concerned and a little reluctant.  
  
“These past few days have been the worst. He’s been angry, flipping out over the smallest things and taking his anger out on the furniture, on his creations, on me.”  
  
Her arms are held in close beside her now.  
  
“And then he comes to me last night, looking like a million dollars. It was like the man I fell for suddenly reappeared. He’s so eager now, full of so many ideas and plans. I don’t know what you said to him last night, but…”  
  
She fiddles again, looking down at something on her phone.  
  
“I guess what I wanted to say was thank you. Thank you for bringing him back from the edge.”  
  
Bad Apple turns her phone around, showing me the screen. It’s a picture of my arse hanging out of the MRI machine, my tail and legs hanging uselessly behind me. She taps her screen, and deletes the image, before walking away.  
  
“We’re even now.”


	15. Interlude: Mel

“Mom! I’m going to Tracy’s.”  
  
I shout up the stairs, not even waiting for a reply, and shoot out the front door, slinging my backpack over my comfortable coat. Outside, everything is the way it has always been. White picket fences, rows of suburban housing with nice cars and unlocked bikes. This is a nice neighbourhood, in the suburbs of Brockton Bay’s northernmost area. The people here are happy, friendly businessmen and their ever-smiling stepford wives. New Wave live a few blocks away, and the struggles of the rest of the Bay might as well be happening in another country.  
  
I hate it here.  
  
It’s so stifling, so samey. Nothing changes, least of all the people, and the closer you look, the worse it gets. I know everyone here ponies up money to the Empire. Not individually, of course. There’s no Nazi door to door salesmen selling thugs by the hour, but the Homeowners Associations like to keep their streets clean and free from drugs or thieves. So they pay the Empire, and the Empire sends its thugs into the areas around our little patch of Suburbia, beating down the undesirables on their own turf so we can keep our illusion of paradise.  
  
That’s Tracy’s house on the left. Her parents are out of town, visiting a tech conference in Silicon Valley. That’s the kind of people that live here; Brockton Bay might be dead, but Downtown was able to cling to life and now the vultures have built themselves a home on the corpse. This port city now houses tech start-ups, a few token buildings owned by larger corporations looking to take advantage of the city’s tax breaks and the ever-present rock of Medhall at the heart of it all. Dad works there, in the labs, and mom does her best to support him from behind the scenes.  
  
She worries about me. I don’t think she understands that children grow up. Grandma used to say she was sensible from childhood, so maybe mom assumed her sweet little Melissa would stay the same forever. She wouldn’t like the clothes I’m wearing, practical but close-fitting jeans, sneakers and a t-shirt. My mom likes dresses, and to be fair I do to, but she wouldn’t approve of the black cocktail dress and high heels I’ve folded into my backpack. Either way, these clothes are a lot better than my school uniform. If those idiots at Immaculata didn’t insist on a school uniform, then I could have got changed there.  
  
Seriously, whoever decided that was a good idea must be impossibly sheltered. Just send girls to walk home in a skirt and a cardigan that says they go to the richest school in the bay, that can’t go wrong! Might as well print ‘EASY MARK’ on the back.  
  
There goes Tracy’s house. She is having a party, with a few of the boys from Immaculata and some of her own friends, but I asked her to cover for me. I’m heading further in. This area of the city is well served by the buses; while everyone here owns a sedan, they all like to pretend to be environmentalists. So, they depart every morning in a flock of bicycles, or take the bus from the stop at the end of the road. I don’t have to wait long; within a few minutes an orange coloured bus pulls up in front of me. Someone’s spray-painted a blue M on it, a reminder of where its journey began.  
  
The driver accepts my change without looking at me. His short-sleeved shirt with the logo of the bus company exposes a bulky arm with the words ‘Eternal, Enduring, Everlasting’ tattooed onto the bicep. Three E’s, the symbol of the Empire Eighty-Eight. This is how they keep their end of the bargain. Every tradesman in the neighbourhood, every plumber or electrician, every work crew or television repairmen, they all work for the Empire in one way or another.  
  
Suburbia speeds past outside the window, gradually giving way to the real Bay. These are the districts at the edge of the suburbs, the parts everyone pretends don’t exist. The Empire are less subtle here, gangs of young men and women stand around on street corners dressed in black jackets with red flair. They're just sort of waiting, showing the colours to anyone who comes into the area. Their jackets could hide any number of things, from knives to drugs to guns, and they’re the reason I can walk back from Immaculata in my uniform. If only others could be so lucky.  
  
These suburbs fade in the end, replaced by the towers of downtown. On the other side of the street, I can see dozens of suited men and women making their way to the bus stops, looking to get out of the centre of town and back to home. Once downtown passes, the bus carries on into the streets of the real city, past the towers and businesses. The area isn’t bad, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s not great either. There’s uncollected rubbish on the side of the streets, and a lot of the buildings could do with a fresh coat of paint.  
  
This is my stop. I step out into the area, not quite fitting in with either the locals or the commuters. I follow the sidewalk, trying and failing to flow through the foot traffic. Soon I’ll be one of them. Another few months of school and I’ll be off to Yale, studying economics to make my own way in the world. I won’t have time for silly things anymore, and so I’m not going to waste a second of the time I have left. I veer off to the left, before ending up in a dead-end alleyway. I turn around, only to see a figure approaching, wearing a red-and-green jacket and carrying a switchblade.  
  
“What’s a beautiful girl like you doing all the way out here?”  
  
I jump back in shock, taking in the ABB colours and switchblade before giggling.  
  
“Nova, you bitch! You scared me!”  
  
The ganger pulls back her hood, revealing a smiling young woman with soft features offset by her hair, which had been shaved on the sides and braided behind her head. Noviya Dimayuga, first generation Filipino immigrant and the best person I’ve ever met. She’s so intense, so alive, and she pulled me out of suburbia and into the real world.  
  
“Well, you know what they say about going into dark alleys?”  
  
“You told me to meet you here!”  
  
Her smile is infectious, and I can’t stay mad at her.  
  
“Well, yeah. But I’m badass, remember? I can hang around in dark alleys all I want, but you need to be more careful.”  
  
Whatever this Romeo and Juliet thing is that we have going on, it’s pretty clear she’s Romeo. We met one day as I was out with my friends. I didn’t know she was with the ABB then; she was just another eager girl visiting the boardwalk. She came up to us and we laughed our way along the promenade before parting with each other’s number in our contacts. Later she said she came up to me to mug me when she got the chance, but decided to flirt with me instead. It was the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever said to me.  
  
We take a seat on a step, hidden from the street by a dumpster, and Nova pulls out two bottles of soda. The lids have been opened before, but the bottles seem full.  
  
“What’s this?”  
  
“It’s soda, dummy. Mostly. You want cherry or lemon?”  
  
“Cherry.”  
  
She hands me the bottle and I unscrew the lid, wincing a little at the smell of alcohol. I’ve been drinking before, obviously, more now that I’m almost out of school, but Nova has a taste for spirits that I can never keep up with.  
  
“Good choice. Sweet, like you!”  
  
She rubs her hand through my long red hair.  
  
“So that makes you sour, right?”  
  
The stroking hand turns into a gentle elbow to my side. We sit there in silence for a while, counting the bricks on the wall opposite. I hold the bottle in both hands, looking down warily at it. Beside me, Nova takes a big sip and sighs happily.  
  
“Come on, Mel. Places like this are always better with a little buzz, and they charge way too much for drinks. The trick is getting drunk enough to enjoy it, but not drunk enough that you’re not let in.”  
  
I’m a little nervous, but I trust Nova more than anyone. The liquid burns a little, but then the burn is muted beneath the cherry aftertaste. We sit there for a while, throwing rocks at the wall and chatting about anything and everything. We talk about school, Nova goes to Winslow and always has an interesting horror story, our friends, she always finds suburban intrigue hilarious, or each other. We don’t talk about the future. Both of us know this won’t last, but neither of us are willing to admit it. Soon I’ll be gone, and she’ll be too deep in the ABB to come see me.  
  
We’re both getting what we want, but we’ll both be sorry to leave each other. Time passes, hours spent just chatting with each other. Chatting about nothing much at all, but it feels so good to just talk. Our bottles empty. Nova’s right; I’m buzzing, but I’m not drunk.  
  
“You got yours?”  
  
I zip open my backpack, fiddling around until I pull out a small card with a picture of my face on it. Beside me, I see Nova has a similar card. I got mine through Andrew and his friends in the Empire. Normally, people from our area only give financial support, but every now and then someone like Andrew comes along. Nova got hers through the ABB. She takes mine and looks it over, checking if it’s good enough. It’s probably the same guy making them, with a different coloured jacket depending on who he’s selling to. That makes me giggle, and I share my joke with Nova.  
  
We descend into laughter, making jokes about Hookwolf and Lung sharing pants. Nova stands up and unzips her rucksack, pulling out a short red dress and heels.  
  
“Keep watch for me, yeah?”  
  
I move to the edge of our dumpster, peering around the corner to keep watch for peeping toms as she changes into her dress, stuffing her colours into her backpack.  
  
“Okay. Your turn.”  
  
She looks radiant, a bright spot of colour in the murky alleyway. She won’t look out of place, not on a Friday night, but she will stand out. She always stands out.  
  
We trade places, Nova keeping watch while I slip out of my clothes and into the cocktail dress, taking a moment to steady myself on the heels. When I turn back, I see Nova leaning up against the dumpster, leering at me with her arms folded beneath her breasts. Instinctively, my hands move to cover myself only to put them by my side as she starts laughing.  
  
“Nova…”  
  
She steps forwards, puts her arms around my body, and brings me in for a kiss.  
  
“Come on, Mel. It’s not like you’ve got anything I haven’t seen before. In fact, I’d say I’ve seen it at least six times already.”  
  
I blush, but I don’t push her away. I need this comfort, the sense of stability in her arms. I feel like I’m rooted to this spot, that the earth beneath my feet could fall away and I’d stay, held in the air by her arms. We release each other, checking our hair and makeup, as much as we could put on at home without looking suspicious, and walked out into the streets.  
  
It’s already dark, and the city’s youth are out in full force, descending on the bars and clubs like a swarm. Every now and then a police car will drive past, the black-uniformed officers within here to keep Brockton’s nightlife safe from the gangs, and the drunks safe from themselves. We stroll down the pavement arm in arm, drawing gazes and whistles from all corners. The sidewalk glows in the yellow light of the streetlamps, and the stars are poking through the clouds above our heads.  
  
We move through the streets, passing beneath rows of brick buildings lit up for the night, until we catch sight of the discrete three-story building with a long line stretching out the front. The building doesn’t look like much, with old windows covered in black tape and an unassuming frontage, but this is one of the best clubs in the bay. There are others, of course, but this one has a presence that those other clubs, bigger or flashier they may be, lack.  
  
The Palanquin.  
  
We move over to the line. It’s long, but then the lines outside clubs are always long. It’s a marketing thing. We wait there for a while, not long enough for our buzz to fade, before making it to the front. The bouncer checks our ID’s, and I’m barely able to hold in my fear for the few seconds it takes for him to let us through. Inside is a small reception area with a cloakroom and a young woman at a desk. We hand her our backpacks and she stores them in the back, handing us both a numbered disc which we slip into our purses.  
  
Normally she’d ask us to pay a cover charge, but we’ve planned this in advance. It’s ladies’ night, which means we get in for free. It’s all just a marketing ploy to bring in desperate young men, but me and Nova are willing to be walking advertisements if it means we get in without paying. Not like they’d have any luck with us. It’s just part of the sex appeal places like this try to keep up. Even the young host in front of us was probably hired for her looks; she’s a damn bombshell. What’s nice about the Palanquin is that they try to be beautiful, rather than sexy.  
  
The host is wearing a white button-up shirt and tight pants, hardly a stripper’s getup, and that elegance spreads into Palanquin itself. The bouncers wear suits, and the bar staff are all handsome young men and beautiful women in crisp shirts that are just a little too tight. The club itself is all glossy black surfaces lit by white strips of light and polished to an almost mirror-like shine. The main room is divided into a raised area that holds a bar and plenty of couches. This dips down four steps onto an expansive dancefloor, set before a DJ on a raised platform like a high priest of music.  
  
The first thing we do is make for the bar, forking over cash for some vodka and cokes which we drink on the sofas, just looking into each other’s eyes with the music blaring in the background. Then Nova stands and reaches out with her hand. I offer my own like a princess meeting a knight, and she strides over to the dancefloor, half-dragging me along behind her. We lose ourselves to the music, flowing in and out of the moving bodies. Sometimes we dance right in front of each other, sometimes the flow of the music drifts us apart and I dance surrounded by strangers until fate brings us together again.  
  
We’re laughing, cheering, in mindless ecstasy as the moment takes us. I don’t know how long we spend there, or when our wild dance turned into the two of us swaying near the center of the floor, our arms wrapped around each other. Time passes without me really noticing, as the sea of faces surrounding us shifts and changes, though always remaining the same size. I begin to tire, and Nova leads me back to the sofas, another drink in my hand though I can’t remember where I got it from.  
  
“This is amazing! I’m exhausted already!”  
  
I almost have to shout over the noise. I’ve been here before, sneaking in with friends, but going with Nova is a completely different experience. She’s so alive, and I’m alive when I’m with her.  
  
“I know what you mean,” she looks almost as dead on her feet as me, “and I think I know a great way to relax.”  
  
I giggle, and place a finger on her lips.  
  
“Not here; there’s too many people.”  
  
Her grin turns wolfish, and she aims a lazy bite at my finger.  
  
“Not what I meant, Mel, but I love your enthusiasm. I can get us up there.”  
  
I look up at the row of windows that runs along the side of the club, above the backrooms. These windows aren’t blocked, but they might as well be. The only way to get up to the second floor of the Palanquin is to be invited, and that’s more a matter of luck than anything else. There’re all sorts of rumours floating around about that place, all of them making it sound like the Garden of Eden itself. Nova spots my disbelief.  
  
“I can. I’ve been up there before. You ever hear of Newter?”  
  
She’s whispering to me now, her lips right over my ear. I shake my head.  
  
“He’s a cape.” My heart stops in my chest, “Some kind of mercenary or something. What matters is that the guy sweats psychedelics. I’m not talking about LSD or anything like that; this shit’s unique. You wanna know the best news about it?”  
  
I don’t move. I don’t really know what to think.  
  
“It’s not addictive, it’s not harmful, and the guy just gives it out up there.”  
  
I’ll admit, she’s winning me over. I don’t know if that’s because of what she’s saying, or just because I don’t believe she’d put me in danger,  
  
“What’s the catch?”  
  
“This guy, Newter. He’s one of those monstrous capes; the guy’s sweaty as all hell, his skin's bright orange and he's got a fucking tail! So, we suck up to him. Pretend he doesn’t look like a freak. I’ve been up there before, and I made him think I was bi. He likes me, and the bouncers like me. They’re my way up, and they’re yours too. Don’t worry about anything I might say up there.”  
  
She turned my head to face her and touched her forehead to my own.  
  
“You know I only have eyes for you, right?”  
  
I follow her. I’d follow her anywhere. She talks to the bouncer by the roped-off staircase, laughing along with him, and he heads up to exchange a few words with someone in the upper room. He waves us up, and I follow behind Nova’s red dress, stepping into the unknown.  
  
We can still hear the music from downstairs, but it’s a little muted. The room is long, and filled with couches and cushions. There are about a dozen young women on them in various states of consciousness. They fade into the background, however, when I spot the orange man at the centre of the room, a girl on each arm. He looks about my age, and his body, though horrible, has well-defined muscles that speak of an active lifestyle. He catches sight of us, catches sight of Nova, and lets out a shout.  
  
“Nove! How’ve you been my girl?”  
  
I can’t see Nova’s face, but I know she’s putting on the false smile she uses to pickpocket tourists on the Boardwalk.  
  
“I’ve been good, Newter. This is my girlfriend, Mel.”  
  
I step forwards, hiding a little behind Nova’s shoulder and stammer out a hello.  
  
“Lovely to meet you, Mel. Anyone beautiful enough to catch Nove’s eye is good in my book. You want to show your girl the good stuff, eh Nove?”  
  
Nova giggles, not the way she giggles around me. She holds her hand to her chest in mock exasperation.  
  
“I’m hurt, Newter, that you think so little of me. You’re right, but I’m still hurt.”  
  
The cape laughs, picking up two shot glasses from the table in front of him.  
  
“Nah, I get it. You want to show your girl a good time, and I aint about to get in your way.”  
  
He dips his tonge into the glass, sending a small bead of orange liquid mixing into the water. It doesn’t look like much, but Nova doesn’t say anything. Not like I’d know how much is too much anyway. He holds out the glasses to Nova, before pulling away at the last second.  
  
“There is something you can do for me though. Y’see, my girl in the corner there is looking mighty lonely. She just got back from a swim, and I figure she deserves to be surrounded by beautiful things.”  
  
I look to where he’s pointing, and my throat dries up. There’s a monster there, just lying on a pile of pillows and cushions. It’s huge, massive, with smooth armour over strange looking skin, and it’s arms end in wicked claws.  
  
“Don’t worry, Khanivore’s just a big softie when you get to know her. She’s been sleeping on the floor for the past few days, the poor thing, so she’s made herself that little pile of softness. You both look pretty soft yourselves. Keep her company, will you? She won’t move or bite or anything, and her skin’s surprisingly comfy, like a leather sofa.”  
  
“Sure, no problem!”  
  
Nova speaks for me, and I tug furtively against her hand.  
  
“Great! Here you go!” Newter hands me and Nova a shot glass each, and Nova starts leading me over to the monster. She whispers to me on the way.  
  
“Don’t worry about it, Mel. That thing’s not going anywhere, and you won’t even notice it when your out. The trip’s worth it, trust me.”  
  
“Okay…”  
  
My voice came out quieter than I intended. We reach the monster, it hasn’t moved a muscle since I first saw it, and Nova helps me down onto the pile of cushions, with my back against the monster. She sits herself down beside me and looks up to the ceiling, leaning on the beast without a care in the world. I wait there with her, my nerves afire, before Nova holds up the glass, inspecting the liquid in the light, and turns to me.  
  
“You ready?”  
  
“Yeah…”  
  
“Alright. Here we go.”  
  
She takes the shot, and so do I. My muscles begin to relax and my back slowly uncoils itself until I’m lying on the monster, looking up at the ceiling. The light begins to twist into prismatic colours and shapes, and I fade off into a world of my own, leaving the Palanquin and the monster behind.


	16. Metropolitan: 3.01

I float in an airless void, surrounded on all sides by electrified fluid that works its way into my pores. My eyes are shut, but sleep is a distant memory. The second immersion is easier than the first; it was a lot harder than it used to be to spend thirty-six hours immobile, especially with my limbs tingling as they knitted themselves back together. On anyone else, the experience would have been agonising but I only felt the faintest hints of pain, just enough to let me know I’ve been injured. What made it worse was that this time I had no body to wander about in. The Crew came by every now and then, but they all had their own affairs to sort out. Normally I’d have been burying myself in busywork, driving the van or helping the others to unload, but my options are a lot more limited now.  
  
When I finally clambered out of the tank, I was so exhausted that just threw together a few cushions in the Palanquin’s private room and fell right back to sleep. I only woke once, when a pair of devotchkas laid down on me to take a hit of Newter’s sweat. It was nice, to feel that human contact again, as comatose as they were. I don’t know if the malchick was just fucking with them, but I’m happy all the same.  
  
I spend a lot of time asleep now, or simply inactive. These last eight hours, my second immersion in the tank, passed in a blur of waking and sleeping, the two blending together until they were indistinguishable. Now I can see the light of dawn creeping across the corridor, and the clock in my tank reads 08:07. I reach out, sluggishly, with my right hand and hit the release switch. The process takes some time, as the pinkish liquid is drawn into grates beneath my feet and stored in a separate tank. As the liquid withdraws, my weight begins to return to me and I place my feet down onto the metal floor, hunching over slightly as my body readjusts.  
  
Above my head, and along the sides of the tank, jets of icy water fire, washing the last of the fluid away and shocking me back to my senses. I shake off the excess, before the glass door slides open in front of me, and the rich smell of the Palanquin fills my senses. It used to be that I’d leap out of the tank onto all fours, ready to fight the moment I left. It’s nice not to have to worry about that. Instead, my steps are cautious, even reverent, and I walk on two legs for as far as I am able. That’s not very far, as the doorway is a little more than half my height.  
  
The third floor of the Palanquin could not be more different to the club below. Unlike the rest of the building, this floor was never redecorated and so the walls are bare brick with neat wooden flooring, covered in places by rugs and carpets. It’s a nice place, a little too clean to be completely homey, but we’ve made it our own. There are rooms for each of the Crew, and my own room hurriedly converted from a disused bathroom. Beyond that is Faultline’s office, a kitchen/dining room, a lounge and a few old storerooms. It’s a nice enough place, and nicely separated from the rest of the city.  
  
I haven’t seen Brockton Bay yet, though I’ve been in the city for forty-eight hours now. I catch a glimpse of it out of the window as I wander aimlessly, endless rows of redbrick buildings punctuated by a few tower-blocks in the distance. I want to explore, but I know that sort of thing is best done at night. Still, I’m not tired enough to spend the day lazing around, so I go in search of something to do.  
  
I find Faultline in her office, looking over an old-fashioned corkboard. I say Faultline, but I suppose it’s really Melanie as she’s dressed in a white shirt rather than body armour. She’s pouring over what I assume is a map of the city, with red pins set in at irregular intervals. Each of the pins is attached by a string to a different photograph, probably showing where the picture was taken. There are a few green pins as well, though I’ve no idea what they’re supposed to be.  
  
Each of the photos seems to show the same thing; a person, probably a girl, dressed in red overalls with a black gas mask. Some of the photos look like CCTV from a petrol station, others look more amateurish like they were taken by someone on the street. One photo seems even more amateurish, but shows the girl with her mask off, exposing brownish hair and a freckled face. She looks terrified, like the photographer snuck up on her. What the fuck is Faultline doing here?  
  
I creep up behind Faultline, I can be quiet when I want to be, and tap a claw on the picture. Melanie, a steaming cup of coffee held close to her chest, turns at the slight sound.  
  
“Sonnie. Glad to see you’re awake.”  
  
She moves over to look at her map, and I tap again.  
  
“Her name’s Spitfire, or at least that’s the name the PRT have given her. She’s wanted for multiple manslaughter and arson after five bodies were found in a burned-out house in the suburbs, but since then she’s been limiting herself to turning over gas stations.”  
  
That’s all well and good, but it doesn’t explain your interest. Fortunately, Melanie’s in a talkative mood today.  
  
“I think she had a bad trigger and has been laying low ever since, probably scared out of her wits. She’s on the run, afraid of her power, and desperate. In short, the perfect recruit for the Crew.”  
  
That doesn’t make sense. She sounds like a pyromaniac bitch. I reach out for a spare pen and scrawl ‘trigger?’ on the board.  
  
“Ah, I guess you wouldn’t have heard. Most capes aren’t like Gregor or Newter. Instead, they gain their powers through trigger events. It’s trauma. The most traumatic experience of your life. Talking about them is taboo, so they’re not common knowledge.”  
  
That explains quite a lot.  
  
“I think ‘Spitfire’ had a bad trigger, probably a home invasion, and can’t return home anymore. If she’ll have us, then we’ll take her in and help her adjust to a new life. She can share a room with Elle, poor kid could use some female company a little closer to her age.”  
  
Makes sense. Which means these pins are Melanie’s efforts at tracking her down. Probably the red pins are confirmed sightings, while the green pins are possible hideouts. Melanie’s thorough like that. I tap her on the shoulder as a way of saying goodbye, and make my way to the kitchen. Gregor and Newter have already eaten, I can tell that by the dirty dishes the malchick’s left behind. Gregor’s cleaning them up and he offers to cook me some breakfast but I just shake my head. This is something I need to sort out.  
  
The frying pan is pretty easy to handle, but the knob on the stoves proves a bit fiddly. Still, I am able to turn the hob on without causing a gas explosion or tearing off the knob, so that’s a bonus. The bacon goes in easy, long streaky strips of it, but the eggs are a little more difficult. I just don’t have enough control to make a clean break of it, and end up crushing more eggs than I should. Still, I got most of the shell out. I manage to wangjangle the meal together, only spilling a bit of it, until the bacon is greasy and the eggs aren’t. This pink and yellow mixture is thrown into a bowl and brought over to the table. I could have eaten it from the pan, but I don’t think Gregor would approve.  
  
The food is exactly what it needs to be, rich and heavy, and I help Gregor clear away the mess as best I can before going off on a little explore. Palanquin is closed this early in the morning, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t people about. Palanquin is a nightclub, which means all its maintenance is handled during the day. The staff here know about us, of course, but they’re paid well enough not to know. To most, we just use Palanquin as a hideout, only management knows we own the damn place.  
  
That means I can stand right in the middle of the club, stretching myself to my fullest extent, without being bothered by the white-shirts darting about the place. They all avoid me, and most prefer to look rather than cringe away. Their attention isn’t entirely unwelcome. I’m fucking magnificent, and the more people who see that the better. The staff are going about the place working on the little things that keep the place running. The bar staff are restocking the booze with fresh bottles and kegs, the kitchen staff are bringing in pre-prepared ingredients (it’s a club not a five-star restaurant) and the cleaners are just beginning to polish the dance floor. The dance floor I’m standing on.  
  
I get out of their way, no need to make their jobs any more of a hassle, and move off to the side of the room. The porters are struggling under heavy wooden crates, so I move over to help out. They accept my help, and begin to pile crates onto my outstretched arms. This takes me back, back to the waif of a girl fresh out of her A-Levels who signed on with Jacob’s Banshees. We were a small crew back then. Jacob, Karran, Wes and Ivrina. Two geneticists, a surgical nurse, a hardware specialist and the girl who drove them around and helped carry their things. It was a good life, simple and amateurish, and I’m glad it happened. That’s long in the past though, even before I ended up here. Fame had long since taken these simple jobs out of my hands.  
  
There’s a man in a neatly-pressed grey suit directing the roadies. He looks over as I approach, neatly trimmed hair framing a face the colour of milk chocolate, and nods, before pointing over to a collection of crates that had been set aside.  
  
“You must be Khanivore,” I’m not familiar with Yank accents, but this geezer sounds proper classy, “I’m Franklin Abernathy, Palanquin’s manager. If you need something sorted out, then just come to me.”  
  
I nod. Faultline mentioned this guy last night; he runs the joint while we’re away, and helps to launder our hard-earned cash through Palanquin. He’s quite good at his job, as the club makes a profit on its own, but our cash easily triples that.  
  
“Since you’re helping us out here, you could do us a favour and take those upstairs. Miss Faultline put an order in for them a few weeks ago.”  
  
I move over to the crates, a stack of six long boxes made of plastic and wood. They’re stamped, but the letters don’t mean anything to me. I carry them upstairs, taking the back stairs rather than going through the club, and find myself back in Faultline’s office, where the boss is still pouring over her map.  
  
“Sonnie,” she seems happy to see me, “thanks for helping out. Just set them down on the floor here and I’ll get these locked away.”  
  
I do as she asks, and Faultline presses her hand against the top case, cracking open the padlock with her power. She lifts up the lid, and reveals a long black rifle stored in foam padding, with a collection of magazines surrounding it. Faultline takes up the rifle and looks over it with a professional’s eye. She seems satisfied, and sets the weapon back into its case. As she does, she catches my wary look.  
  
“I put in an order for these a few weeks ago. They’re meant for people like you; Brutes who can take more of a hit than we can give out. We’re not killers, that’s something I’m very clear on, but parahumans make things difficult. Now that you’re here, our frontline is a little more resilient and hopefully Spitfire will give us that extra Blaster capability.”  
  
I guess it makes sense, especially if they put the order in before I joined. Still, I’ve never used a gun and probably never will. There’s not much point when slicing and dicing is so much more fun. I help Melanie stow the guns in a locked cupboard, then spend the rest of the day lazing about on the sofa. Time passes in a blur, as the sun drifts aimlessly across the sky. The others come and go, joining me to idly flip through channels or read the paper. Melanie takes Elle out for a walk at around three.  
  
What Chevalier said about Elle is still bugging me, so I take the time to ask Gregor about her situation. He tells me that they did pick her up from an asylum out near Philadelphia. Apparently, the government has this pit where they dump all the parahumans who are either bananas or can’t control their powers. Elle’s a little bit of both; she’s always altering reality around her and she’s much more distant as a result. The Crew went into the asylum on a job, and picked up Elle as an afterthought. Back there, they’d move her to a different cell every night so her powers couldn’t get a fix, but here we have a whole city to play with.  
  
Melanie takes her out for a stroll along the boardwalk every day so that she can sleep in the same room each night. It’s not perfect, and Elle’s power still seeps a little into her room, but I reckon it’s a damn side better than being kept in an asylum for your entire life. Better to live free, and damn the consequences.  
  
Once they return, the sounds of the club begin to emerge from beneath our feet. Newter moves down once things are in full swing, off to surround himself with his harem of drugged-out devotchkas, and invites me down with him. I shake my head, not wanting to spend an evening surrounded by dope-heads now that I’m still awake. Instead, I tell Melanie that I’m heading out for a poke around the town. She accepts, and sends me off with a warning to stick to the shadows. On my way out I pick up a cool bag that Abernathy ordered for me, slinging the bag over by shoulder as I set off. I climb down the back stairs, and slip out the rear entrance to Palanquin, so as not to freak out the customers.  
  
The brick walls of an alleyway surround me, hidden in twilight shadows from the rest of the city, and I reach up to the fire escape of the next building over, clambering up the metal scaffold until I reach the top of the brick building. Palanquin is set on the side of a gently sloping hill, so a ladder of rooftops stretches out before me, each a little higher than the last. I take a moment to sniff the air, tasting the smog and petrol and brick-dust that is Brockton bay’s signature and set off at a loping run, the cool bag held as still as I can manage.  
  
This city is built like a slum, with tight clusters of brick building set closely together and interspersed with narrow roads. It reminds me of the older parts of the North East, where the towns are built around their industry, as close to the factory or mine or dockyard as possible so as to maximise the time spent working. This was a professional town, but it’s clear it isn’t anymore.  
  
Sure, there are towers off in the distance that speak of life, but they don’t fit with the character of the city. Their gleaming glass frontage doesn’t match the faded brickwork and rusty metal that is the real Bay. It’s not quite as dead as some places I’ve seen, but it’s not fully alive either. I climb higher and higher through this brick jungle, until I finally reach the apex of the slight incline.  
  
Once there, I stare in wonder at the sights set out before me. On one side I have the hills, blackened silhouettes outlined by the setting sun that is slowly disappearing behind their vast bulk. It’s a natural wonder looking over rows of brick buildings that turn into tree-filled suburbs that creep up the side of the hill. The orange glow of the street lights merges with the light of the setting sun, fusing together into a constant band of colour. This is what a city looks like if you take away the heat-shimmer and the domes, leaving a free boundary between humanity and nature. It’s beautiful.  
  
I turn, and see an even more spectacular sight. To the East stretches the endless expanse of the sea, rolling waves lit orange by the light of the setting sun, slowly fading through blue and into deepest black. I’ve never seen the sea like this, except in films. The sea here is free to lap up against the shore, without being kept at bay behind sea-walls or hidden behind endless construction. To my left, stretches a forest of ships at anchor, their metal hulls shining in the setting sun while, at the centre of this magnificent bay, a man-made platform stands beneath a glowing dome.  
  
It’s some kind of energy shield, technology even I thought was science fiction. The ball of air catches the sunlight, transforming the dome into a radiant orange ball that reflects swirling patterns of light onto the water below. As I watch, a beam of light shoots out from the dome and onto the shore, a bridge of solid light that holds its shape just long enough to let a speck cross from the dome to the bay. I sit myself down on the rooftop, unzipping the cool bag to reveal a nest of drinks. This is what I really wanted when I came out here, a chance to lose myself in this beautiful city.  
  
I don’t know how long I waited there, nursing my drinks as the sea turned from orange to grey to black and the light of the sun was replaced by the orange glow of the city. I just know that I found peace up there, with two litres of cider in one hand and a new world stretching out before me.


	17. Metropolitan: 3.02

The sun has disappeared now, and there’s a chill in the air. It’s nipping at my extremities, a muted sense of cold. I can’t really feel it the same way as I used to, it was just another redundant sense on this body, but I still can’t remove it’s influence entirely. A bottle of beer should help with that, or the next, or the next. On my eighteenth birthday, a little while before I left home, I remember granddad giving me a call. He told me that if I ever needed to get drunk, then it’s better to get drunk alone. I never really paid much attention to that advice, following the Banshees and then the Predators as we scoured the local boozers after each fight, but I think I get it now.  
  
I’m drinking to cope, to take away all my worries and concerns about this fucked up world, and my place in it. I’m drinking to draw my mind down to a simpler state, without worry or concern. It’s working. I’m alone here; just me, the city and the ocean spreading out endlessly before me. I feel so small, and that smallness helps draw me back to reality. I’m not worried about this world, or the job, or my health, and that leaves me free to just be. Granddad also recommended drinking at home, but right know I don’t really have one.  
  
No, that’s not true. Palanquin is as much a home as any I’ve ever had. It’s filled with people who like me, who care about me, and I care about them in return. Getting out here, getting away from their care and concern, makes me understand what I have now. Things could have been so much worse. I could have been captured on that first night, and wound up alone or press-ganged into an organisation, rather than a family. There’s no way the Protectorate would let me just run off into the city with nothing but a bag full of drinks.  
  
A sharp humming sound creeps into my ear, drawing me away from the zen of this moment. It’s annoying; a persistent whine that rattles my teeth. I lean up just a little from my slouch, and look for the source. The sudden movement blurs my eyes a little, and sends a couple of glass bottles clinking away. Out of the corner of my eye I spot a faint shape hovering in the air, closely followed by a second twisting figure that seems to shift unnaturally, flickering and twisting between the rooftops in a way that my slightly-sloshed brain just can’t comprehend.  
  
The girl, and I’m pretty sure it is a girl, hurls herself onto my roof through a sickening distortion. It looks like she just crossed the gap between buildings in a single step, but that can’t be right. She’s wearing some kind of skirt-armour-thing in white with little green squiggles and green sunglasses. The green lines are swirling and turning, but that could just be the booze talking. She’s blonde, I think, and looks a little younger than Elle.  
  
Her boytoy on the surfboard looks older, maybe mid-teens, and is dressed in red and yellow armour. His board is the source of that fucking noise, and I briefly consider lobbing a bottle at it before deciding I’m not drunk enough to brain a kid. Instead, I lean back into a slouch and hope they don’t spot me. I’m not feeling steady enough to actually do anything about them, but they both look a little distracted so hopefully they’ll pass me by. It is getting a little late, maybe it’s past their bedtime.  
  
I hear the patter of little girl feet on the rooftop, underneath that fucking ringing, as the kid gets closer and closer. It looks like she’ll pass me by. Instead, she shrieks and scrambles backwards, somehow moving a lot further back than she should. She should have fallen straight off the roof, but I can see her standing by the edge. Whatever the fuck that is, it’s an absolute nightmare on my eyes.  
  
“What’s the matter Vista?”  
  
The flying kid trails off as he catches a glimpse of me, before flicking on some kind of fucking torch on the side of his stupid red glasses. Just when my eyes had got used to the darkness too. Hey, arsehole, don’t you know it’s rude to shine a light in people’s eyes?  
  
Of course, that’s not what I say. I can’t say much of anything, but I can growl pretty fucking convincingly. I cover my eyes with my arm, just in case he didn’t get the point, and he lowers his light a tad, muttering to himself.  
  
“Um… Sorry?”  
  
I think I’ve taken the wind out of their sails a little. Young miss green takes a single step forward through a vomit-inducing swirl of space, ending up a few meters from me and right beside the floater.  
  
“What are you doing up here?”  
  
Her voice sounds sincere, like she’s trying very had to be serious. Her effort is undone a little by a slightly girlish shriek on the ‘what’. Not having any better way of getting my point across, I reach into my cool bag and pull out a bottle of something brown. I hold it out to them; maybe they want a sip.  
  
“Right,” I can hear the sigh in the older kid’s voice, “we’re both a little young for that, thanks.”  
  
Not to worry, you malchick, I came prepared. The bottle of as-yet-undetermined alcohol is set aside, and replaced with a six-pack of coke I brought as a mixer. The girl laughs, a giggle being forcefully turned into a slightly more mature sound, while her friend just stares at me.  
  
“Sorry, buddy, but we really can’t stop for a drink. Why are you drinking here, anyway?”  
  
Are you blind? Can’t you see what’s all around you? I reach out with a talon, pointing out over the endless expanse of ocean, the glowing shield and the fleet of ships. How can you miss such beauty, flying man? Don’t you ever look, when you’re up there? He turns, but his companion doesn’t. They’re worried about me, keeping a set of eyes on me at all times.  
  
“Huh. The city doesn’t look so bad from up here.”  
  
The kisa tilts her head slightly to the side. For a moment I think she’s fighting an urge to look around, but them her head moves back into position. Shit. I think that was someone on her headset. My buzz fades a little, and I begin to wonder if there was more to the red kid’s mutterings.  
  
“Were you in Boston recently?”  
  
Yep. They’re stalling me, playing for time. I’d noted they were parahumans, but I guess I didn’t link them to the local Wards. Great job, Sonnie, you’ve been ambushed by the fucking boy scouts. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.  
  
Fuck it, I’ll laugh anyway.  
  
My laugh doesn’t come out like I’d hope. Instead of a funny chuckle, the two Wards step back as I let out a long series of chittering snarls. They look a little worried at that. With the cat out of the bag, I figure there’s no point in sticking around.  
  
“Is your name Khanivore?”  
  
There’s no reason to keep talking to me, little girl, unless you’re stalling. Figures the kids would wait for an adult to arrive and sort everything out. I don’t give them the chance, pushing my tail beneath me like a coiled spring to launch me to my feet. The drinks are a lost cause, but I manage to snag a bottle of strong cider as I rise. I’m not aiming for the kids, but I am a twelve-foot-tall octopus monster so I try not to hold it against them when they leap back in fear. The boy’s hand drops to his waist, where a pair of pistols are stored, while the girl shouts into her microphone.  
  
I still don’t like the idea of braining a couple of kids, so instead of going at them I leap off the side of the building. I don’t try to slow my descent, instead crashing through a fire exit on the next roof over. The wooden door splinters beneath my weight, and I book it through the building before rolling out of a window. I’d like to say I meant to do that, but really, I’d just underestimated the corner. Still, I recover before hitting the ground.  
  
I still hit the ground, not even I can beat gravity, but at least I roll. Miraculously, my two litres, or however many fucking ounces, of cider survives the fall. I will treasure this drink, and be very careful when I open it. Another door tries to stop me, another door fails. A white room now, full of fire and metal and raised voices. The kitchen passes in a blur, as I knock over pots and pans and racks of meat. Someone throws a meat cleaver at me, but it bounces off.  
  
The door to the restaurant doesn’t smash, it’s a push door, but the waiter on the other side doesn’t fare half as well. He’s catapulted into one of the tables, launching a plate of pasta into a woman’s face. I pause in shock for a moment, sniffing around at the wonderous smells of food and alcohol, before hearing that fucking ringing again. I barrel through the tightly-packed restaurant, crushing tables and scattering couples. On the way out, I snag a lobster from its dish and throw it into my mouth, crunching down on the shell.  
  
In a fit of altruism, I exit through the door rather than the floor-to-ceiling window, assuming that wood is cheaper to replace than glass, and barrel back out onto the street. There’s a flash of space on the rooftop opposite, so I round the corner into yet another alleyway. A brick wall rises above me, and I make ready to climb it before the ringing noise becomes unbearable. Without even looking, I pick up a metal bin from the ground, and wheel myself around to hurl it at the source of the noise. I catch a glimpse of a red-clad figure levelling a pistol at me, before the bin catches him right in the face. As he falls, an incandescent beam of red light fires into the stars.  
  
His feet must be strapped to his board, as he ends up hanging upside down by his ankles, his head tap-tap-tapping against the ground. I don’t wait for him to get up, instead using my tendrils to lift myself up onto the brick wall, keeping the kid in sight. The moment my footing is sound, I turn my heel and step off into the distance, my bottle unharmed. I haven’t made it ten metres before I run across some roadman sticking up a girl. What the fuck is this city? We’re like fifteen fucking metres from a nice restaurant, and twelve from the fucking child-police.  
  
I barrel through the crime scene in my haste, grabbing the muggers head in my free hand and dragging him along the concrete before tossing him into someone’s garden. No time to stop; I’ve probably pissed off the flying boy and the small girl. I don’t really have a destination in mind, I’m just creeping down the hill in whatever shadows I can find. Every now and then someone spots me, but then I’m not exactly subtle. Most of them scream and run away but a surprising amount just get out their phones and start taking pictures.  
  
Seriously. What the fuck is this city? I mean, sure I stopped to pose for a few of the more attractive women but that’s beside the point. This is not normal behaviour when you spot a monster in a dark alleyway.  
  
Closer to the ground, I start to get the idea that my first impression of the city was a little wrong. You just can’t tell this sort of thing from the damn rooftops. Case in point; I’d never have seen the fucking gang warfare from up there. I’m hiding behind an old shipping container, peeking out at a bunch of guys, and a surprising number of girls, just wailing on each other in the middle of the street. It looks like two gangs duking it out over turf, and the two groups have colour-coded themselves for my convenience.  
  
One group is marked by red with green highlights. They’re sporting a lot of flashy synthetic fibres, with a few of the bolder thugs wearing tank tops that expose muscled arms completely covered in tattoos. They all look young, and they’re showing a little more coordination than the other group. Those gangers look a lot less well off. They’ve all got a mismatched collection of second-hand clothes, and their colours are usually nothing more than a strip of blue cloth tied around an arm. They look unshaven, strung out and filthy, and they’re holding their own on tweaker fury alone.  
  
The fight carries on for a while, a vicious stalemate of bats and knives, before one of the red gangers reaches into the back of his trousers, pulling out a metal handgun. Three shots ring out, and two of the blue team fall in spreading pools of red blood. The others scatter as yet more shots are fired over their heads. The red team runs as well, moving away in a group as the alley echoes with triumphal shouts. The bodies remain in the middle of the street, lit by the orange glow of the street lights.  
  
I take this as my cue to leave as well. I don’t want to get caught out by the police again. Clearly, the North-East is quite hazardous to my health. Some things transcend borders, apparently. Therefore, North-West should be a-ok. Armed with that flawless logic, I turn around and move further inland, passing though rows upon rows of warehouses. It’s strange; back in the UK a place like this would be swarming with life, but this place looks abandoned. This city should be booming with industry at all hours, like Liverpool or Newcastle, but instead it looks like a fucking warzone. Something to ask about later, I guess.  
  
The industrial decline follows me, and I start to piece together the absent supply chain. Logistics is something I’m used to. The Predators had a lot of hardware by the end, and I liked to be involved in getting it from A to B. Those ships in the harbour, far too many for them to be anything other than derelicts, would bring in goods from overseas. They would pass through these endless warehouses, spending months or days or hours in storage, before being taken across the county by the railway lines that are now stretching out in front of me.  
  
The trainyards are obviously disused, with rusty rails and abandoned engines absolutely everywhere. Off in the distance, I can see the lights of a single station at the very edge of the trainyard. All this industry, all this weight of metal, reduced to a single passenger line covered in graffiti. There are cops on the station, armed with rifles. People take infrastructure seriously, especially this deep in gangland. I move away from the lights, poking through abandoned engines and rusted carriages.  
  
There’s something wrong about this place, like all the people just gave up or something. The trains have all been left here, rather than being shipped off overseas, and some of the flatbeds are still covered in steel bars or spools of cable, covered all over in orange-red rust. This is the other side of the chain, where steel would be brought in to export overseas. I can picture it in my mind’s eye, as I sit on top of a rusted train sipping from my bottle; endless columns of trains rolling in and out, pausing just long enough to have the steel bars removed by great cranes and replaced by containers of consumer goods to be shipped across the continent. The wonders of industry, frozen in time.  
  
The air around me quiets, and the noise of the city fades away. That fucking ringing is gone now, and I begin to hear the strange rhythm of my redundant circulatory system. I can hear noise out on the edge of the rail yard, from a covered shelter that probably used to hold the more expensive engines. It’s a steady noise that rises and falls without warning. It draws me in, and I drop down from my perch to make for the familiar sound. It’s something I haven’t heard in a long time, and it calls to me from another world.  
  
The roar of a crowd, baying for blood.


	18. Metropiolitan: 3.03

The sound draws me closer and closer, speaking to me in whispers of a past life. I can smell the scent of fresh blood on my nose, though I know it's just an illusion, and I can hear the roar of the announcer talking me up before a fight. I can hear the crowd roaring and roaring, letting free all pretence of civilisation and revealing the true nature of the human animal. The sound fills my ears, reaching deep into my mind to entrance me with promises of the thrill of the kill, and the love of the crowd.

I step out into the open space before the great warehouse, a bone-white and steely-grey figure silhouetted under a lone streetlamp. There’s a man at the entrance, a bouncer or a guard or something, wearing a black jacket trimmed with red, and a flat cap over a shaven head. He looks at me, and I drink in the fear in his eyes. My blood is up, and no-one will stop my advance. I watch him put a radio to his lips, as I pace closer and closer and closer. He’s paling now, and takes a half step back before a door opens behind him.

A young woman steps out from behind him, and the guard moves himself behind her back. She’s wearing tattered jeans and a sports bra, with her head covered by a metal cage. Her exposed flesh is riddled with scars, slashes and fractures and a nasty gash across her throat. Beneath the cage, I can just about make out a crop of blonde hair, buzzed short. She is uncomfortably familiar, though I cannot understand why. She takes a small plastic tube from her pocket and places it against her throat, before speaking in an artificial voice.

“What the fuck are you supposed to be?”

I don’t know how to answer her. My blood is up and all I can do is sniff at the air, looking over her head to the glimpse of a crowd I can see through the open door. She stares at me, a predatory gaze I know all to well, and I match her, drawing myself up to my full height. The guard’s radio crackles into life, and he holds it out to the scarred woman with fear obvious in his eyes. She speaks into it, never taking her eyes off me, before thrusting it back to its owner.

“The boss wants to see you.”

She turns and steps into the warehouse, surrounded by the noise of the crowd. I follow behind her, cuffing the guard upside the head as I pass. He cringes back in fear. Behind the door, what first draws my eyes are the four soldiers in black and red armour wielding vicious-looking rifles. The carrot and the stick. They each have some logo on their shoulders, two black eights in a white circle, but I don’t recognise it. Beyond these commandos stretches a crowd over a hundred strong. Most have their backs turned to me, looking off into the centre of the room, but some notice my entrance and flinch back.

The scarred woman, who is so achingly familiar, leads me up a set of stairs, giving me a good view of the room. The old trainyard has been stripped of railways, and remodelled into some kind of fucking shrine. Two immense statues stand watch over the entrance, armoured figures made entirely of metal and carrying immense axes. Red banners hang from the walls, emblazoned with the same two eights in a white circle. None of that matters, however, not when compared to the Pit at the centre of the room. It’s a simple thing, metal plates hammered into a circle and dug into the concrete, but it represents a universal constant. I have fought there before, in Doncaster and St Ives and Milton Keynes and fifteen other arenas.

As I ascend the stairs towards a cluster of offices, I watch two cages being lowered into the pit. The crowd goes silent, save for the cries of the ringmasters as they take the bets, before the cages are opened by long poles and two four-legged shapes creep out into the arena. Fighting hounds. The two terriers circle each other cautiously, one Pit Bull with brown fur up against a Staffordshire Terrier with white fur and black patches around his eyes. The crowd, a sea of shaven heads seen from above, cheer their chosen champion, and the Terrier lunges for a first strike.

We have reached the top of the stairs now, and so I take my eyes off the fight. It brings back memories of when we first set out, when Jacob was our fighter and all we had to our name was a spliced Doberman with its brains scooped out and replaced by bioprocessors. I was part of the crowd back then, supporting Jacob from the side-lines with the rest of the team. The Pit wasn’t as big as this, just pubs or farms or anywhere you could make a circle. The takes weren’t large either. The big leagues came after we made Khanivore, and I became Khanivore.

The office is well lit, and muffles the sound of the crowd slightly. It’s set into the wall of the trainyard, set just below the ceiling, and it looks over the entire arena. There are a few busybodies at the near end, working the numbers on calculators and computers, but most of the space is given over to a lounge of padded sofas and stocks of alcohol. Besides the scarred woman, there are three other obvious capes in the room. A shirtless man is standing next to the window, looking down over the Pit. His trousers are belted by chains, and his face is covered by a white tiger mask. There’s a girl lazing on one of the sofas, her features concealed beneath a black and red robe.

Lording over the others is a man sitting on a stone throne carved with runes. He’s shirtless as well, with savage muscles that speak more of pure strength than aesthetics. His face is hidden beneath a metal wolf’s mask, but long blonde hair is creeping out the back. The scarred woman moves to position herself to his right, and tiger-mask turns to look at me.

“What sort of beast are you?”

Wolf-mask speaks in an even tone and a powerful voice that carries throughout the office. Clearly the leader of the pack. I let out a low growl and lift my claws to my throat, watching realisation appear in the scarred woman’s eyes.

“She’s mute,” her artificial voice replies. Beneath the holes in the metal, I see the wolf’s eyes narrow in apparent disbelief, before acceptance dawns.

“And what brings you here, mute thing?”

I slowly raise my left arm, pointing out of the enormous windows, towards the Pit at the centre of the crowd. The dogs are circling closer now, moving in for quick scratches and bites before pulling back again. Each is sizing the other up, trying to look for some weakness they can exploit without becoming vulnerable. The Pit Bull has the advantage in weight, and uses its strength to strike at the smaller Terrier. The other dog is more cunning, and outmanoeuvres the Bull by choosing when to fight and when to run. The beasts are evenly matched, for now. The crowd roars with each feint and strike, cheering on their chosen champion and shouting abuse at his foe.

When I turn back, I see the wolf leaning forward on his throne, looking me up and down. His eyes linger on my claws and muscled arms, before shifting up to the proud crest of spiked bone that extends from my forehead.

“You’re a fighter.”

His words are not a question, because his statement cannot be questioned. Each of us recognises our own. The two shirtless men and the scarred woman, standing opposite a monster. All one and the same. A moment of silent understanding passes between the four of us then, leaving the robed girl entirely in the dark.

“I am Hookwolf, and these two are Cricket and Stormtiger.” He turned to gaze over to the pit with an almost nostalgic look on his face. “Like you, we began out careers in the Arena. We fought our way to victory and defeat, but we found it lacking. There is no threat there. You break bones, and have yours broken, but then the enemy yields and you spend weeks being nursed back to health, only to do the same thing all over again. It’s not real, and so we left. I imagine it was much the same with you.”

I leer at him and shake my head. He looks confused at that, so I move over to a whiteboard and write a short message.

’18 straight wins.’

‘To the death.’

I can’t see through the mask, but I think he’s grinning.

“A true warrior then. I shall not kill you tonight, out of respect for what we both are. Cricket will watch you.”

We share a look then, one of bared teeth as two predators size each other up and find something the other can respect.

“Seriously, Hookwolf? Why don’t we gut this freak already?”

Ah, the girl. Dressed in her little robes and clinging to the coattails of her betters. She must be a cape as well, or else she’d never have dared. I turn my head to fix her with a piercing stare, and chuckle as she looks up and up and up to meet my gaze. Should have stood before talking, not that it’d have helped much.

“Shut up, Rune,” Hookwolf snaps at her, getting there before I can. She sits down, mollified. Girl’s gotta learn that hanging around the cool kids doesn’t make you one of them.

I rap my knuckles twice against my chest and nod at Hookwolf, before moving over to the window to look down at the fight. Blood has been drawn now, on both sides. The Terrier has dozens of smaller nicks, no doubt from desperate crushing blows, but the Bull is bleeding from a deep gash along its flank, where the smaller dog has darted in with a vicious bite. The two beasts are wrestling now, pawing at each other with tooth and claw to try and find purchase before disengaging and moving back to the edge of the arena. The beasts have animal instinct, but they lack the human intelligence needed for Beastie Baiting. That’s why our sport made money on a level these fucks could never beat.

I spot Cricket moving up on my periphery, positioned to keep both the arena and me in her sight. She’s a furious one, and I still can’t shake the feeling I’ve seen her before. We look out over the roiling crowd, packed in so close together that they’re like a sea of flesh moving with the tide. They’re hungry, feral even, and they’re crying out for more blood, more violence, more victories. As I look over the crowd, a sea of shaven heads clutching talismans and betting slips with equal reverence, an uneasy feeling starts to rise in my stomach, though I cannot name a cause.

The beasts clash again, the two hounds pushing each other onto their hind legs in a fight for dominance. For a moment they stay there, a statue of flesh and fur and bone, before the Pit Bull’s weight gives it the edge needed to push the terrier onto its back. The pale dog flops back onto its back and desperately rolls away from a vicious bite, though it’s too slow to avoid being scored along its belly. Some distant part of me notes that the Terrier’s female.

“It draws you in. Doesn’t it?”

A mechanical voice comes from behind my right shoulder. I turn and see Cricket staring through the glass and into the pit. I nod, and we look out in silence for a while, the scarred woman holding her speaking-device against her ruined throat.

“We got our start down there. Hookwolf and Stormtiger were fighters before they were parahumans, and I ended up in the Pit after I triggered. We were rivals. We fought each other dozens of times, and we came to respect each other. To respect Hookwolf.”

We stand in silence again. I get the feeling she’s not used to being the person carrying the conversation. I can’t say I ever felt the way she did about the other fighters. They were never really there in the same way I was, and they were all trying to kill me. Sure, they didn’t know they were killing me, but that didn’t exactly make me want to warm up to them.

“We all thought the Pit was making us stronger, that we were becoming true warriors. Hookwolf realised that was wrong, that without the fear of death all we were doing was destroying our bodies on a fantasy. So, we killed the ringmaster and his cronies, and set out on our own to fight real enemies in a battle of life and death. Hookwolf brought us out of the Pit, and I follow him gladly.”

Another silence, as the dogs closed again, crumbling together into a mass of gnashing teeth. They break apart, neither yet willing to commit to the kill. It’s a battle of attrition on both sides. Either the Terrier will kill the bull with a dozen well-placed strikes or the Bull will wear the Terrier out and kill her in a single, titanic, blow.

“We found the Empire, and Hookwolf swore fealty to Kaiser knowing that he would bring us new battles and new foes. We followed Hookwolf, and never looked back. Through the Empire, we built this place. To remind us of where we came from, and to bring others onto our path. We are the chosen warriors, and the world is ours for the taking.”

Fucking hell. It’s some kind of fucking death cult. It makes sense now, the statues, the talismans, the runes on a stone throne. These people are nuts. The crowd takes on a different light now; a hundred and fifty people united in their bloodlust, working themselves up into an ecstasy of murderous rage. Is that what I looked like? Before Khanivore? Before I was the one fighting? Is that what the Predators looked like, when they watched me fight in the Pit?

“Now we are the masters.”

No. They cared about me, and if I had asked them to stop then they would have. I pushed us down there. I kept us going through eighteen different fights, because I wanted to feel something. Every near miss, every close shave, they saw their friend die right in front of their eyes. They celebrated each victory, because they hadn’t lost me. Was that why they made such an effort to include me? Were they worried the next fight would be my last?

Hell, was I? I threw myself into those fucking things, taking risks and showboating for the crowd. My edge could only get me so far, and sooner or later I’d have ended up against someone I couldn’t beat. And then I’d be gone, and the Predators would have to drag two corpses out of the arena.

Things are different now. I’m not hiding away anymore. I don’t need to fight to feel. That moment, back on the rooftop. That was nice. I felt at peace, without needing an enemy to fight or the risk of death. I was just living in the moment, taking in everything around me. I think I’m a lot happier now. I think I was burning myself out without any reason. This world might be a fucked-up mess, twisted into some parody of a sane smegging society, but it’s given me a chance at another life. At a better life.

The Terrier somehow manages to dart under the Bull’s legs, chomping at the dog’s bollocks with a blow that has the crowd wincing. The Bull turns in fury, and reaches out with a bite that catches the Terrier on her tail. The smaller dog is hauled back, her legs flailing uselessly against the floor, and scrabbles to her feet the moment the larger beast lets go. But she’s too slow. The Pit Bull grabs onto the bitch’s neck with its fierce teeth, and squeezes. Blood runs down the white fur, pooling onto the arena floor. The Terrier scrabbles to her feet in a desperate attempt to free herself, gashing lines into the larger dog’s legs, but her kicks get weaker and weaker until she finally stops.

The announcer calls the match and the crowd erupts into a discordant noise as cheers mix with groans and furious shouts aimed at the loser and her owner. The crowd abandons the arena, half of them stepping off to the bar while the rest crowd the bookies, clamouring for their winnings. The Pit Bull is dragged away from the partially eaten Terrier and goaded back into a metal cage with sharp spears of metal. The box is then hauled out of the pit by a crane. The Terrier is left where she fell. Her corpse will probably be fed to the winner as a reward.

I feel ash on my tongue.

They start to set up another fight, but I just make my way out of there. Without the pit to distract them, there are a lot more gawking faces as I head down the stairs. They don’t quite spit in my face, probably because I’m being followed by Cricket, but I’ve never seen a more vicious looking set of bastards before. I brush past them, literally in a couple of cases, and look back before I leave. I catch a last sight of Cricket, her scars and her shaven head, and suddenly it just clicks in my mind.

“If we meet again, it’ll be a fight worth having.”

She looks a lot like Sonnie.


	19. Metropolitan: 3.04

**Welcome to the Parahumans Online Message Boards**  
You are currently logged in, Sunny_Disposition  
You are viewing:  
• Threads you have replied to  
• AND Threads that have new replies  
• OR private message conversations with new replies  
• Thread OP is displayed  
• Ten posts per page  
• Last ten messages in private message history  
• Threads and private messages are ordered by user custom preference.  
  


■

  
**Topic: Some monster ruined my date!  
In: Boards ► Places ► Brockton Bay ► Forums ► General  
  
JazzAppreciator** (Original Poster)  
Posted on March 6, 2011:  
  
Okay, So I'm out on the town with a very beautiful babe. I'm feeling pretty good about the whole thing, we've been really hitting it off recently, so I took her to Avanti on Orange street.  
  
You know the place, fancy italian with a decent price range.  
  
Anyway, we're having a great meal when all of a sudden I hear this banging and clanging from the kitchen, like a warzone or something.  
  
Then this giant monster smashes its way into the restaurant, goddam clothslines a waiter and smashes his way out the door. Freak stole my lobster and ate it in front of me. Shell and all.  
  
Then Kid Win flies through the restaurant on a hoverboard. I ran out to try and get a pic, but the monster had legged it. I was able to get this [PICTURE] of Kid Win covered in garbage, though.  
  
Totally ruined my chances of getting laid last night.  
  
 **(Showing Page 1 of 2)**

**► Brocktonite03**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Great. Like this city couldn't get any worse. Now we've got some kind of seafood-loving anti-wingman out there ruining dates. You gonna tell us what it looked like or just leave us guessing?

**► Glitzglam**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Kind of a jerk move to take a picture of Kid Win like that. He's only trying to help.

**► LovesickInBB**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Is your date okay?

**► JazzAppreciator** (Original Poster)

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Nah, she flipped a lid at me. Kept saying that I left her there covered in spaghetti to go chase a hero. What the hell was I supposed to do? It was Kid Win covered in garbage. No decent man could resist.

The monster looked like the mutant lovechild of a squid, a beetle, a panther and Andre the giant. If that helps.

**► Sunny_Disposition**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Sounds to me like you runied your date, buddy. Maybe you need toget your head on straight and stop blaming other people for your lack of game.

**► SpecificProtagonist** (Cape Groupie)

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Oh hey! I think I saw your monster!

Me and a couple of friends from school were on a girl's night out when we saw this frieky looking guy running through the alleyways.

I tried to sneak a pic, but I got spotted. I thought he was gonna eat us for sure!

He was friendly though, and posed for a selfie with the three of us. Which I won't be sharing.

I got another photo of him on his own though, so here's what he looks like! [IMAGE]

**► JazzAppreciator** (Original Poster)

Replied on March 6, 2011:

What the hell do you mean Sunny? I've got game for days. I'm a goddam gentleman and the whole world knows it.

Yeah that's it SP. Right down to the bottle of cider in its hand... claw... wahtever

**► Brocktonite03**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Holy hell! Hey, SP, is that thing standing really close to the camera? Cos it's twice as tall as the door in that picture.

**► SpecificProtagonist** (Cape Groupie)

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Nope! I only came up to his thighs. The guy must be twelve feet tall at least!

**► Minuteman1776**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Okay so I'm a Bostonite taking part in one of our favourate hobbies (trawling the BB boards to feed off the misery of our neighbours to the north) and that guy looks a lot like the monstrous cape that attacked a police truck a few days ago.

The PRT and Police haven't made a statement yet, but word on our boards is that some out of town mercs sprung a prisoner en route to the airport.

**End of Page. 1, 2  
  
(Showing Page 2 of 2)**

**► Pimento**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Could be a new recruit for Faultine's Crew? It fits with Gregor the Snail and Newter, and Faultline herself has that wierd spiky hair.

Hey, @Minuteman1776, any word on the other capes involved? If there was a shirtless teen wth bright orange skin or a very fat transparent albino then it's definately Faultline.

**► Vista** (Verified Cape) (Wards ENE)

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Real nice of you to take that pic of KidWin, Jazz. You're a real stand up guy.

Can't talk about what happened last night, as the PRT are waiting on an official press release to be coordinated between ENE and Districts 6 and 21.

We aren't sure if they're dangerous to the public yet, but we do know they were drunk. If you should see this individual, please don't approach them. You guys know how it goes by now.

**► Minuteman1776**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Yeah, that's them. You wackos run out of space for your criminals or something? Why are you exporting them to the rest of us?

**► TheTruthIsOutThere** (Temp-banned)

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Hey, there's one of those brands on its chest! Looks like another Case 53 for the PRT to hush up!

Also, SpecificProtagonist, I gotta say I never really figured you for a schoolgirl. You always struck me as more of a forty year old man.

**Alathea: That's not appropriate behaviour. Take a while to think about your actions.**

**► SpecificProtagonist (Cape Groupie)**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

what

  
**End of Page. 1, 2**   
  


■

  
**Topic: Faultline's Crew  
In: Boards ► Places ► Brockton Bay ► Forums ► Factions  
  
Bagrat** (Original Poster) (The Guy In The Know)  
Posted on January 14, 2010:  
  
This post is about the Brockton Bay based mercenary group lead by the villain Faultline.  
  
This is a continuation of the **Factions** series, my efforts to catalogue the smaller groups operating on the East Coast, and will be updated over time as necessary. If something new happens, you can verify it, and I'm not already on it, then just let the mods know and they'll update the post. Any help you can provide is a public service; paying attention to the smaller players can be just as important as the larger gangs.  
  
 **Affiliation**  
  
Faultline's Crew are a group of mercenary villains.  
As such, they cannot be reliably tied to any one gang or organisation. They do not take any jobs in Brockton Bay, likely because they have a permanent base in the city and don't want to anger the gangs.  
  
They do follow a moral code of sorts, and have displayed an unwillingness to use lethal force, but their clients have been suspected to range from Fortune 500 companies to Gesselschaft affilliates.  
  
 **Membership  
  
Faultline **(Founding Member)  
The leader of the group. Faultline is a Striker capable of creating cracks in any surface she touches. She seems to be limited to inorganic material.  
  
Faultine's hair resembles a quill of spines, which could suggest she's a Case 53, like much of her group.  
  
 **Gregor the Snail** (Founding Member)  
A Blaster/Brute capable of concoting and propelling a range of chemicals through his skin, Gregor resembles an overweight man with translucent skin. His brute rating comes from a resilience to blunt force trauma. He was hit by a car in Salem and just walked away.  
  
So far, he has demonstrated the ability to generate adhesives, lubricants, acids and thick clouds of smoke. The distance he can launch these substances varies, but he has not yet exceeded twenty feet. It is likely he is capable of much more.  
  
 **Newter** (Founding Member)  
A Striker/Mover with orange skin and a prehensile tail, Newter secretes a chemical that induces psychedelic sleep in anyone it touches. The chemical is not believed to have long-term effects, and is limited to touch range.  
  
His Mover capability allows him to crawl exceptionally fast, and he is not limited to the floor. He is personable, and is rumoured to offer his psychedelics to women he finds attractive.  
  
 **Labyrinth** (Recruited 01/03/2011)  
Shaker 12. Yes you read that right. Labyrinth was collected by Faultline's crew when they raided the Northern Parahuman Asylum in Philadelphia. She has the ability to alter reality in a radius around her, drawing in solid constructs that often resemble decrepit hospitals or other unsettling environments. We don't know where she gets her constructs from.  
  
You shouldn't really be approaching any of these people, but that goes double for Labyrinth. She was in the Asylum for a reason, and now that she is no longer receiving treatment she has likely become much more dangerous.  
  
 **Khanivore** (First seen 02/27/2011)  
A Brute and a low level Mover, Khanivore was apparently recruited in Philadelphia, before the Crew's high profile raid on the FBI Field Office [LINK].  
  
Khanivore stands at around twelve feet tall, but prefers to move on all fours. She has grey skin, segmented plates of bone-like armour that ends in claws and a spiked tail.  
  
The spelling of her name, and her gender, were verified by my sources. For some reason, the Chicago Protectorate tried to give her a Shaker rating, but I can't find any source that says she ever operated in that city.  
  
 **(Showing Page 84 of 84)**

**► FlippinMad** (Cape Groupie)

Replied on February 4, 2011:

Look, all I'm saying is that Newter's stuff is real sweet. Best trip I've ever had, I swear to god.

**Oracle: You can't advocate for drug use on a public forum. Consider yourself warned.**

**► FugativeFromSociety** (Temp-banned)

Replied on February 28, 2011:

So, looking at this page I think these were the badasses who hit the FBI and put Chevalier to sleep in a bed of bricks.

Nice going you freaks! Stick it to the man!

**Tin_Mother: No inciting or glorifying violence, and no personal insults either. Third strike, take a week off.**

**► Strawberry16**

Replied on March 2, 2011:

I feel so sorry for Labyrinth. She was probably getting so much care in the Asylum, and now she's being dragged around the country like a human weapon.

I just want to give her a hug.

**► JazzAppreciator**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Hey! That's the b**** who ruined my date! Are you happy Carnivore? You f****** homewrecker!

And f*** Faultline and her menagerie.

**Tin_Mother: Infraction for foul language.**

**► SpecificProtagonist** (Cape Groupie)

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Don't listen to him Khanivore! Your're brilliant just the way you are!

Also you're a girl?

**► XXxXSpace_IndianXxXX** (Banned)

Replied on March 6, 2011:

So Faultline picks up another Case 53. I'm betting she's part of the conspiracy too, I'll bet those shady jerks just love having a deniable group of mercenaries.

**Tin_Mother: Banned sockpuppet account.**

**► NotAFakeTan**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

Aww. I bet Khanivore's just a big softie at heart. Couldn't hurt a fly.

**► Sunny_Disposition**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

No way. I reckon she's a vicious slice-and-dicer who'd eat ya as soon as look at ya. I reckon she feasts on loudmouthed malchicks.

**► CRKT**

Replied on March 6, 2011:

So this is who you belong to, mystery beast.

I enjoyed our talk at the theater. You're a good listener.

We should meet up again sometime and set up our own play.

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 82, 83, 84**   
  


■

  
**Private message from AutoModerator:**

**AutoModerator:** Congratulations on registering with Parahumans Online, the world's largest cape-related messaging board.

Before you begin, please familiarise yourself with our [code_of_conduct]. PHO is a safe environment for people to meet and discuss all sorts of things, and we work hard to keep that environment as free and open as it is.

You may also want to read our [beginners_guide] to familiarise yourself with how the site works, and what sorts of features are now at your fingertips.

To make a good impression on people, we recommend you introduce yourself in the [introductions] thread of your [local_board]. This will help you meet your new friends in a safe and friendly environment that understands the difficulty of just starting out.

If you should run into trouble at any time, then don't hesitate to contact our [IT_Staff] if the problem is related to a technical issue, or one of our [Moderators] if the problem is with another user.

Remember, Sunny_Disposition. Our door is always open!

Please do not reply to this automated message.

  
**Private message from Bagrat:**

**Bagrat *New Message*:** Okay, I updated the spelling and gender on your profile, but did you really need to flip me off in your photo? I just needed to confirm you were who you said you were.

  
  
  
Typing with one hand is a bitch. Typing with one claw is worse. Typing with one claw while floating underwater is an utter nightmare, but damn if this wifi connection isn’t useful. I crawled back from my bender last night at around four in the morning, and climbed straight into the tank to get the poisons out of my body. Sunrise passed me by, and I woke up around an hour ago. The clock read 11:00, with around an hour left before my eight hours end.  
  
Now it’s twelve, and it’s about time I dragged myself out of bed. The crew have been moving about for a while, I kept hearing the patter of their footsteps on the floor, but they didn’t spend the night boozing it up with all sorts. Did I really spend the night with Nazis? Like actual Nazis with matching uniforms and everything? What the fuck is with this city.  
  
So, a quick look on the internet revealed the Empire Eighty-Eight, and led me to identify the two other gangs I saw as the Asian Bad Boyz and the Merchants. They’re what the Estate Gangs wished they could be; well organized and well-armed. The Empire has more capes than the fucking cops! And I just wandered into four of the fuckers last night! That was stupid. As dumb as a sack full of hammers.  
  
I can’t think of this right know; the tank might have dealt with any possible hangover, what a wonderful side effect, but my head is still fucking pounding. The corridors are bare, but there’s talking coming from the lounge. The whole gang are there, just lazing around watching TV. Even Elle looks engaged in what’s going on, actually looking like she’s following the show as she leans into Gregor’s side. Melanie looks up at me as I step through the door, and her stare cuts me right to the core.  
  
“So. Sonnie. How was your night out?”  
  
I offer a very weak smile and a thumbs up, hoping that’s enough to satisfy her. It isn’t.  
  
“I see. And what’s this I hear about a restaurant, a Ward and a lobster?”  
  
I stop dead. Shit. She found out. Of course she found out! There’s pictures and everything! The restaurant will probably be selling the CCTV to broadcasters by the end of the day. I haven’t been this embarrassed since mum and dad caught Brian from across the street climbing in to my window. Okay. It could be worse. She could have found out about the Nazis.  
  
“Hey, Sonnie?” Newter calls out at me from across the room, his phone in his hands. He’s holding his phone!  
  
“Who’s CRKT? And why does she want to put on a play with you?”  
  
Newter you fucking snitch!  
  
It’s okay, I can still salvage this. I start to grunt and gesture, making it look like I’m trying to explain but am having difficulty on account of not having any vocal cords. For a blissful moment I am able to delude myself into thinking I’ve gotten away with it, but then Melanie taps a finger against the whiteboard screwed into the wall. The screws look very new. Nothing for it now, I guess. It’s time to face the music.  
  
‘Two Wards, not one.’  
  
Faultline sighs in exasperation, and my heart sinks.  
  
‘They started it’  
  
This does not get the reaction I was hoping for.  
  
“Just… Tell me what happened.”  
  
Gregor and Newter have abandoned their digital entertainment. Even Elle has turned around to rest her arms on the back of the sofa and gaze at the circus act that’s about to unfold. She’s looking me right in the eyes, a little bundle of blonde adorableness that I just can’t resist. I sigh, and resign myself to my lot in life.  
  
‘I was minding my own business.’  
  
I ignore the remark Newter almost concealed with a cough.  
  
‘I went up onto a rooftop to look out at the ocean. I’ve never really seen it before.’  
  
‘While I was there, I had a few drinks and I might have gotten a little relaxed.’  
  
‘So, I didn’t notice two Wards, a red guy and a little girl, step onto _my_ rooftop.’  
  
The board’s full, so I wipe it down.  
  
‘They freaked, shined a light in my face and then just looked a bit confused.’  
  
‘Were probably surprised I wasn’t fighting them. I offered them a drink, but they said no.’  
  
Elle giggles at that. Elle, the emotionless sob story, giggles.  
  
“You tried to give the Wards alcohol?”  
  
It’s the most words she’s said in days. Melanie said her power comes and goes, and that she’s more lucid when it’s weakest, but this is better than I’d hoped! What a wonderful girl she is!  
  
‘Yeah. They said no, so I offered them a can of coke. They even said no to that.’  
  
She’s giggling again, and I decide I have to continue. For her sake.  
  
‘After a while I realized they were stalling me, so I leapt up and over the edge of the roof.’  
  
I relay the story as best as I can with a whiteboard and pen, and Elle follows along entranced. She laughs as I talk about the kitchen, and the chef who threw a knife at me, and the woman with spaghetti on her face. She loses her mind when she asks me what the lobster tasted like and I just write ‘victory’. Everyone laughs when I write about how I escaped from Kid Win, and Newter passes his phone around the room so that everyone can get a good look at the photo. I knocked him backwards, so I missed the expression of cold fury on his face.  
  
I tell a sanitized version of my stroll through the streets, before coming up to the part I really didn’t want to write. But trust goes both ways, and I trust the crew.  
  
‘CRKT is Cricket.’  
  
Yeah… Way to kill the mood. They’re clearly not going to be saying anything soon, so I guess it’s up to me to press on.  
  
‘I told you all I was a pit fighter. Back home, I spent most of my time piloting a corpse that couldn’t feel much of anything.’  
  
‘The only time I could really sense things the way I used to was in the fights.’  
  
‘I heard a cheering crowd, and I followed it blindly. To Hookwolf’s arena.’  
  
“Sonnie…” Melanie doesn’t sound angry or sad, just disappointed. Somehow that’s worse.  
  
I wipe the board clean. I’ll need a lot of space for this.  
  
‘I figured something out while I was there. For years, I’ve only ever felt alive when I’m fighting for my life. I’m not suicidal, or I don’t think I am, but it was literally the only time I could feel anything.’  
  
‘I became addicted to the fights. If I hadn’t seen the people in that arena, people who’d fallen further down the path than I had, then I think I’d have kept throwing myself against bigger and bigger odds until I died.’  
  
‘For the first time in years, I’m free to feel all the time. I don’t need the pit anymore, not when I have this. But some part of me still wants to throw my life away. I guess it’s not the sort of thing I can deal with overnight.’  
  
The room’s silent, and I press my back against the wall before sinking to the ground, my head lowered. I can’t even bear to look at them. It’s the feeling of skin against my flesh that makes me look up. Elle’s there, wrapping her tiny arms around my neck. This isn’t right, kisa. I’m supposed to be the one helping you.  
  
“Look…” it’s Melanie again, resting on one knee to look me dead in the eye, “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through, but we’re family, and we look after our own. I’m here if you need to talk,” I snort at that, “you know what I mean.”  
  
Yeah. I really do.


	20. Metropolitan: 3.05

We’re getting ready for another job. We’re gathered in the lounge, loosely sprawled across the sofas, with Faultline standing in front of us all. She and Elle are in costume, though neither are wearing masks. It makes it easier to distance ourselves from the more relaxed atmosphere of the lounge; we’re professionals on the job, not a family or a gang or a loose affiliation of spree killers. Faultline’s gesturing on a noticeboard like a general rallying the troops. This is her show, she’s the Commander and Tyrant of our company; we’re not called Faultline’s Crew for nothing. It’s a state of affairs I’m perfectly happy with. There’s no confusion here, no possibility for cock ups because we couldn’t agree on how to proceed.  
  
“Tonight’s mission is on our own initiative. I’ll see that you all receive half pay for it. Our goal is to locate Emily Wilson, Spitfire, and make an offer to her. My investigation puts her somewhere within these four blocks of warehouses in the Docks. Newter, you’ll search the area while we wait in the van. Be discrete, and look for some sign of her powers, like a melted lock. As far as I’m aware, she can spray a liquid that ignites on contact.”  
  
Newter nodded his agreement, almost managing to look professional in spite of the way he was idly playing with his tail.  
  
“If you find her, or even some sign of her, then radio in to me. We’ll approach her in a way that puts her between us and her home. That way she’ll feel like she has an out if she needs it. She’s on the run, desperate, so we need to play this carefully. Gregor, Khanivore, I’ll be asking you to stay back unless I call you.”  
  
“I understand,” the translucent man rumbled, without a hint of bitterness in his voice.  
  
I get it as well. This girl’s only seventeen, and she’s been on the run for three weeks now. If she sees us, she’ll probably just disappear.  
  
“Labyrinth, you and Newter will come with me to meet her.”  
  
Elle’s sitting next to me and she nods her head uncertainly.  
  
“Faultline…” her voice is hesitant, “I don’t think I can help if we get into trouble. I’m not strong enough right now.”  
  
Faultline pauses for a second, a momentary flash of concern, or something else, before she turns a sympathetic smile on sweet Elle.  
  
“That’s alright Elle. We’re not there to fight, and she needs to see someone friendly. Besides, don’t you want to see what you think of her? She’ll be sharing your room, after all.”  
  
The kisa’s lips purse for a second, before she nods with a determined look on her face.  
  
“Okay. It’ll be nice to have a big sister.”  
  
My jaw drops in horror and I clutch my hand to my chest in anguish. How could she forget poor old Sonnie like that? I stare her down, trying to convey my sheer shock and disbelief at her betrayal.  
  
She doesn’t buy it, of course. Right now, she’s a lot more cunning than she looks.  
  
“I can have more than one big sister. She’ll be like the middle child.”  
  
Her tone is disapproving, but with an undercurrent of mirth. I reach out with a massive hand and start to ruffle her hair. She tries to squirm away, not very hard, but eventually relents. Faultline smiles. I get the feeling Elle sees her as a mother, perhaps as the only mother she can remember. She’s never talked about her past, and most of the time she hasn’t been able to.  
  
Faultline coughs into her hand and suddenly we’re all business again. Except Elle, who’s trying to undo the damage I did to her hairstyle.  
  
“I can’t emphasize enough how careful we need to be. About a week ago, there was some kind of fight on board one of the derelict freighters. Melted metal and claw marks were found, likely a failed recruitment effort by one of the gangs. Not only that, but every group interested in unaligned parahumans will also be looking for her. This is probably the only shot we have at this.”  
  
And so it’s done, briefing concluded. Off we go into the great unknown.  
  
It’s getting late, and the club’s in full swing. We can’t hear them through the walls, soundproofing is essential for anyone living over a club, but we can’t exactly travel through them. Fortunately, Palanquin backs onto an alleyway that runs through the middle of the block, just large enough for the storage of yet another white van. We stride down the club’s stairs, Mr Abernathy’s keeping the customers and the staff away for us, and there’re a couple of bouncers in the alleyway giving us the all-clear. Apparently, it’s a popular rumor that Faultline’s Crew uses the Palanquin as a base, so we take extra steps to leave unseen. It’s a bit of a joke, anyone could bust in at any time, or spot us through the windows, but so long as we aren’t cocky about it nobody will go after us.  
  
Brockton bay looks different from ground level. It’s harder to ignore the rubbish lining the streets, or the homeless lining the streets begging rich partygoers for change. Some of the clubbers don’t look that rich themselves, drinking to escape their lives most likely. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before in London or parts of the North-East, but it’s still not an easy sight. That could have been me, if I hadn’t chanced upon the crew. I could have been an urban legend in Philadelphia; the monster that prowls the streets at night, scavenging through skips for scraps of discarded food.  
  
Spitfire’s been doing that for three weeks already, and she’s nowhere near as strong as I am now. The girl I was at seventeen would have broken here. I’d probably have ended up off my tits on crack, selling myself in some whorehouse for the next fix. We have to get this girl, and get her fast, before someone worse does. Apparently, that’s a thing with capes; get them hooked on heroin and they’re so much more valuable to you than any whore. It’s power at your fingertips, all at the low cost of her freedom and dignity.  
  
Gregor told me about this Tinker in Chicago, a guy who specializes in chemistry. He makes drugs that give people the best highs they’ve ever had, and fatal withdrawal if they don’t get more. He sticks people with this addiction, models or fighters or other capes, whoever takes his fancy. Once he’s got his claws in someone, they follow him through a fear of death, but the more they take and the more addicted they become then the more devoted to him they get. Parahumans can do whatever the fuck they want, and piss on anyone who tries to stop them. Dicko was a cunt, but how much worse could he have been if he had powers?  
  
We’re heading further into the city now, almost, but not quite, retracing the path of my drunken rampage. There’s a fancy looking Italian on the way with a piece of plywood for a door. I feel more than a little guilty at that, but it’s probably cheaper than a window. No regrets about the lobster, though.  
  
Hope the kid’s okay, even if his hoverboard set my teeth on edge.  
  
Back to the docks now, and to the endless rows of empty warehouses. It’s a criminal’s paradise, but there’s still the occasional piece of traffic going through. We skirt through what’s obviously gang territory, with ABB scrawled on every wall and the occasional cluster of gangers in red and green jackets staring at us with daggers in their eyes. If they could see through our tinted windows, they’d have been a lot less eager.  
  
Spitfire hasn’t set herself up in gang territory, a clever move on her part. She’s on the very edge of the warehouses, where quite a few are still occupied. No doubt she’s using the occupied buildings to cover her movements, and to ward away the gangs. Brockton Bay’s quite protective of what little industry it has left, so police patrols are a somewhat common sight here. It’s a clever move on her part, but not one without its risks.  
  
We pull into an alleyway and let Newter out. For once he’s wearing a top, though he's been bitching and moaning about how it made his nipples itch. He’s very good at reconnaissance, but Spitfire will be paranoid and looking out for anything. So we tone down the orange with a jacket that leaves his hands and feet free for grip. Hopefully that’s enough. He leaves, and it’s back to the waiting.  
  
It’s interesting, being with this group. The Predators were wild, true cyberpunks with electoos and studded jackets. We worked hard, and partied harder. The Crew are different in some ways, but the same in others. Faultline and Melanie are different, but not by much. She’s a professional all the time, and it rubs off on the rest of us. We’re a mercenary company, not a gang, and it shows in times like this. We might be in here for hours, with nothing to do but wait, but we don’t mind. That’s what makes us professionals.  
  
It makes me feel more than a little guilty over my bender last night. Not even Newter’s as much of a hedonist as I was. I think I’m going to tone it down in the future; I got smashed because it’s what Sonnie did, to try and feel something. I don’t need it any more and, since it was what got me killed, I probably shouldn’t do it anymore. Or maybe just reduce it a bit. Stick to a few pints and call it a night, like a functional member of society. There’s a fucking image.  
  
We spend a couple of hours waiting there before Newter tells us he’s found a length of chain melted together on one of the doors. A crude lock, and one you’d have to replace every night. It’s on the outside of the door, which means she’s out. We move the van closer, and set up for another bout of waiting.  
  
The police scanner in the front chimes to life with a report of an armed robbery a few blocks away, and about an hour after that Newter radios in to tell us that a young girl in a hoodie is walking through the warehouses. That’s our cue. Faultline gently jostles Elle awake, the sweet kid having fallen asleep against my side, and the two of them head out. Me and Gregor follow them for a while, pausing to hide ourselves in an alleyway at the designated meeting point. I peek out, and spot the girl walking down the street, oblivious to our presence.  
  
“Spitfire.”  
  
The effect is immediate; the moment Faultline calls out, Spitfire whirls around in a panic before pressing her back against the wall in terror and sinks to her knees. She’s at her wits end, her eyes darting furtively around the empty street. Empty, except for the three parahumans.  
  
“My name is Faultline. These are Newter and Labyrinth. We have a proposal for you.”  
  
Spitfire’s hyperventilating, so Faultine drops onto one knee to look her in the eye. Newter’s hanging back, literally, off a lamp post and Labyrinth’s waiting a few paces back from Faultline.  
  
The three of them just wait for Spitfire to calm down and bring her breathing back under control.  
  
“Is this an offer I can’t refuse?”  
  
“No. Just an offer.”  
  
Her panicked face contrasts heavily with Faultline’s expressionless helmet, and I begin to wonder about weather we should have done this when she was in costume.  
  
“Can we not do this here?”  
  
“Of course. Where do you want to go?”  
  
Hesitation. She’s uncertain. Probably worried about bringing us home, and she doesn’t know we know where that is. She pulls herself to her feet, slowly, and dusts down her red trousers, stained by three weeks of dirt and grime.  
  
“I’ve heard of you… Faultline. Where’s the other one?”  
  
“Gregor the Snail and our newest member are waiting around the corner. If you’ve heard of me, then you know I take in capes with nowhere else to go. My two other teammates have unsettling appearances, and I didn’t want to worry you.”  
  
Spitfire pauses, no doubt having picked up on the hidden message.  
  
“I’d much rather have them where I can see them…”  
  
Faultline whistles, and me and Gregor step out into the street. He’s doing what little he can to appear non-threatening and I’m moving on all fours so as not to tower over her, but she still lets out a small gasp. I pace up to Labyrinth, stopping with my head right beside her. She leans over and scratches the small pieces of pink skin around my jaw. It feels nice. Spitfire sets off, trying to keep us all in view as she leads us to her home.  
  
Labyrinth leans over to whisper in my ear and I grin, dropping my upper body even closer to the ground. Elle hops up, sitting between my head and my tail, and we pace down the street, a young girl riding side-saddle on a monster. In front of us, I see Spitfire’s worried expression briefly flash into a grin. A welcome, if unintended, consequence.  
  
Her ‘home’, for want of a better word, is exactly like I thought it would be. It’s in a warehouse that was abandoned, but not emptied, and is still full with enormous spools of steel cable, as well as a few shipping containers. Spitfire’s ‘room’ is one of these containers, emptied of its cargo of FM radios, with a pile of blankets and tarpaulins in place of a bed. She steps into the containers as the rest of us wait outside, and emerges with a black gas mask over her face.  
  
The glass is chipped and the rubber’s fraying, and the filters have both been removed to leave her mouth open to the air. Her trousers are in fact a set of coveralls, filthy and ragged, and her curly brown hair is matted and clumped. She looks desperate, but a little more confident with her mask. I pause beside Faultline, but Labyrinth doesn’t get down. I don’t particularly want her to.  
  
“Okay…” she sighs, “What do you want?”  
  
“To give you a job. As you’ve probably heard, my Crew are Parahuman mercenaries. We’re always on the lookout for new members. I can offer you an equal share of all funds, protection from any of the gangs that will try and recruit you, and a place to stay.”  
  
Faultline’s a good hand at this negotiating lark. She built up her pitch based on what she reckons the girl most values right now. Looking at her, I reckon she’d forgo the money entirely in exchange for a shower and a warm bed.  
  
“But I’ll have to fight, right?”  
  
“Spitfire, this is Brockton Bay. You’ve been very lucky so far, but it’s only a matter of time before you piss off the Empire, or the ABB decides to move into this neighborhood, or desperation drives you into addiction and the Merchants. You’re a Parahuman now, and conflict is in our nature. With me you’ll be surrounded by people you can trust to have your back. We don’t abandon our own.”  
  
Spitfire’s voice cracks, and I can hear her desperation.  
  
“I just… I’m scared. I don’t know who you are, and you followed me here, and there’s five of you,”  
  
She’s interrupted as Faultline lets her helmet fall to the floor with a metal clang. A few seconds later, a green mask with a maze motif clatters beside my head.  
  
“My name is Melanie Fitts. These are Sonnie, Newter, Gregor and Elle. We live above the Palanquin on Willarmain Street.”  
  
Elle shrugs herself off my back and pads over to Spitfire, who is visibly shaking. She puts her arms around the teen, and just stays there while she trembles. After a while, the shaking stops and Spitfire looks down at the blonde hair and beaming smile. She reaches up to her head and slowly pulls off her tattered mask, letting it fall to the floor. She looks up on us, worries and doubts warring with the faintest glimmers of hope on her freckled face.  
  
“I’m Emily.”


	21. Metropolitan: 3.06

“… and this is our room! You can have the window side; I never really use it. This is Gregor’s room. He’s really nice, but he’s serious, like, all the time! This is Newter’s room. Don’t go in there. Oh! This is Sonnie’s tank. It’s where she sleeps. Isn’t that cool?”  
  
Poor Spitfire, Emily now, has been sucked into hurricane Elle, and there’s nothing she can do to help it. The formerly homeless girl is currently being dragged around by her hand, being given a whistle-stop tour of our floor by an uncharacteristically lively Elle. For once, it’s the other girl who’s distant. I don’t think it’s sunk in yet, and she looks a little out of place with her filthy clothes and matted hair. The stress is getting to her, but luckily Melanie is there to sort out the problem.  
  
“Elle. I know you’re eager to show your roommate around, but please give her some space. Emily, you probably want to shower and sleep. Don’t worry about your clothes, Sonnie will set out some sleepwear and then we’ll do a shopping trip tomorrow.”  
  
Emily thanked Faultline in a quiet voice, still very nervous around us, and flinched a little as she passed me. I tilted my head to ask Melanie an unspoken question.  
  
“She has to get used to you and Gregor if she’s ever going to relax around here. I’ve got some spare t-shirts she can use as sleepwear, and my clothes will probably almost fit her. We’ll sort out something better in the morning. For now, just get her clean and to bed.”  
  
Fair enough. I collect some sleepwear from Melanie and amble back through the halls, stooping low as my forelimbs are full. I can hear the patter of water on tiles as Emily cleans off what must be weeks of accumulated filth. I settle myself down for a long wait. Frankly, she could spend hours in there for all I care. She’s been through a hell of a lot, and she deserves all the time she wants to get over it. I don’t mind the waiting, or at least I’m making an effort not to mind. I have to learn not to go chasing sensations anymore.  
  
Instead of looking for the big thrills, I listen out for the smaller ones. I hear the subtle changes in the patter of falling water as Emily moves about in the shower. Out the window at the end of the corridor, I follow the subtle shadows and the boundary between the orange glow of the city and the blue haze of the night sky. I run the cloth in my hands across my skin, feeling the texture for the first time. I don’t need the excess anymore, not when I can actually appreciate the little things.  
  
The flow of water stops, the constant patter being replaced by a steady dripping, and I wait for another few minutes before knocking on the wooden door with a scythed claw.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
I respond with a brief growl, trying my hardest to make it sound as non-threatening as possible. It probably works, but apparently, I’m not such a good judge of that sort of thing. I’m so familiar with this body, having seen it built from the ground up, that I’m not intimidated by it at all. Judging by the online reaction, everyone else is a lot more scared than I am. It’s helpful, but not right now.  
  
“Sonnie? Um, come in?”  
  
I open the door, careful not to crush the handle, and entre the old bathroom. Spitfire’s almost pressed up against the back wall, a towel wrapped around her body and her hair. Her eyes widen and her nostrils flair at my approach, an instinctive fear response. Eventually her eyes fall from my killer smile to the bundle of clothes in my hand, and she steps forward hesitantly. I don’t move; this is something she needs to overcome herself.  
  
She inches across the tiled floor, shuffling ever closer while trying not to look directly at me. Once she’s close enough, she reaches out with hands that are near trembling and takes the bundle from my arms. She looks over the silk shirt and trousers with absolutely no expression on her face. She’s still putting up walls between us and her. I nod to her, and make my way out.  
  
“Sonnie… You are a woman, right?”  
  
I chuckle, and turn on my heels to face her. I give her my best dainty curtsy before stepping outside, waiting in the corridor for her to put the sleepwear on. She emerges into the corridor a few moments later, clean and whole again. Her brown hair hangs in curls from her head, free from any knots or matted clumps. Her face is clean, revealing a smattering of freckles, and she smells of lemons, rather than rubbish. She is still nervous, however, and follows a little way behind me as I bring her to Elle’s room.  
  
The Kisa isn’t asleep yet, though she really should be. She’s practically bouncing on her bed in enthusiasm, whereas Emily looks dead on her feet. I walk over to Elle and put a massive finger on her lips. She seems to get the message, as Emily levers herself under the covers. Elle crawls back into her own bed and I creep out of the room, taking a last look at the two sleeping girls before closing the door and making my way back to my tank.  
  
I emerge from the tank exactly eight hours later, with the light of the sun pouring through the third floor’s few windows. I find the others in the dining room, eating breakfast together with our newest addition. Emily looks a little better this morning, though she’s still a little glassy eyed. She’s pawing at a bowl of cereal without much enthusiasm, and Elle is doing her best to keep Emily engaged in the conversation. Thank fuck we didn’t recruit her when Elle was having a bad phase, I don’t know how we’d have coped. I lever myself down to join them, eating a bowl filled with nothing but strips of bacon. Emily keeps shooting me uneasy glances.  
  
Breakfast passes slowly, with uneasy conversation from all fronts. At first, Emily seems reluctant to give voice to the absurd number of questions she’s been keeping to herself, but we are eventually able to coax her into giving voice to her concerns. She asks about the jobs we’ll be pulling, so Melanie tells her about the Philadelphia job and a few others I wasn’t there for. From the way her eyes keep flicking between Newter, Gregor and me, I can tell there’s at least some questions she’s too nervous to ask.  
  
Following breakfast, me and Elle move her into the living room where we zone out in front of the telly for a while. Daytime TV is just as shit here as it was back in the UK, with all the adverts obviously aimed at old pensioners. Still, their version of Bodycam Squad is a lot more interesting than ours. Earth Bet seems to leave in a lot more of the gore than is probably wise, and some of the shows following the PRT look downright bloodthirsty. It’s probably not the best stuff to be watching with Emily, but the only other option is cutesy kid shit, and none of us want that. Emily herself manages to relax a little more, dressed in some of Faultline’s clothes that are too big for her.  
  
She burned her old ones this morning, as she demonstrated her power to us. She expels flammable liquid from her mouth, which ignites after short exposure to the air. Like most other powers, it makes no sense, but she was able to get the fire hot enough to melt her old gas mask and the barrel we threw it in.  
  
Melanie and Newter join us after a while, and we spend another hour consuming mindless entertainment before she turns to the business of the day.  
  
“Emily, do you want to come clothes shopping with me and Elle today?”  
  
The question takes her by surprise. I guess it’s a little strange to think of Supervillains going clothes shopping.  
  
“Is this… to replace my costume?”  
  
To her credit, Melanie takes the question seriously.  
  
“No, dear. This is to get you an entire wardrobe. I’ve sent off orders to a specialist for your costume.”  
  
“What? Someone who makes spandex?”  
  
That gets a laugh out of her.  
  
“No, Emily, that’s not who we are as a group. We’re not New Wave or any of the flashier villain groups. We’re mercenaries, and so we dress professionally. I’ve put in an order for a concealing set of fireproof coveralls, with a reinforced gas mask. It should be a bit more protective than your old outfit.”  
  
“Oh…”  
  
The potential for another awkward silence grew, until Newter chimes in. I still can’t tell if he’s smart or obtuse.  
  
“What, you’re just going to leave me while the three of you go on a shopping trip.”  
  
Faultline smiles at the orange teen.  
  
“We’re the only three people with any sense of style. You never wear a shirt- “  
  
“I’m wearing one now, aren’t I?” Technically correct, although his tank top has a neckline so deep, I could have worn it. Faultline continues as if he hadn’t spoken.  
  
“Gregor wears the same jacket every day and Sonnie’s naked.”  
  
Newter looks over at me with more than a little confusion on his face. I decide to relax even more, sinking deeper into the sofa and spreading my legs even wider. His cocky grin falls slightly, and, when I waggle my tongue at him, I learn that an orange man can turn green. Emily laughs at that, and I congratulate myself on a job well done. I didn’t plan for any of that, but that doesn’t mean I won’t claim the credit.  
  
“What sort of thing did you wear,” Faultline asks me, “before all this?”  
  
I reach down to the whiteboard stowed beside the sofa, I may have to buy a piece of string or something, and jot down a few brief words.  
  
‘Jeans, Tanktop, Leather Jacket.’  
  
“Well you’re definitely not coming with us then. Can’t have your Punk attitude corrupting poor Emily here.”  
  
I stick two fingers up to Melanie, which just seems to confuse her. She chuckles and shakes her head before leaving with the trio to go trawl the shops of Brockton Bay. That leaves the three freaks behind to hold the fort, but none of us are petty enough to hold it against them. Not even Newter.  
  
They return late in the afternoon, laden down with dozens of bags from dozens of different shops. None of which I recognize, but shopping centers were never really my scene. Emily looks more overwhelmed than nervous now, and I can only hope she’s gotten some of her questions off her chest. I don’t mind the talking about me behind my back, so long as it helps her adjust.  
  
I don’t see her for a while after that, I think she’s talking with Gregor about something. When she does return, I’m lying on one of the sofas, watching TV with my head turned sideways. When she enters, I scoot back on the sofa a little, leaving just enough space for her to sit next to my side. She’s looking a little better now, dressed in a pair of white trousers and a yellow blouse. Clothes give people a sense of individuality, and she’s just had the chance to custom build her entire wardrobe.  
  
We sit there in silence for a while, a monster and a waif of a girl, only half watching some shitty show. There’re unspoken words between us, but I don’t move to bridge the gap. This is something she needs to overcome, or she’ll never really open up. Just by being here, by sitting centimeters from me without flinching, she’s already making good progress. Hopefully that progress will continue until she considers herself truly one of us.  
  
Hours pass. Sometimes one of the others comes by to watch. Gregor even stops by, sharing a knowing nod with Emily that suggests they’ve already spoken. Elle’s being quiet again, but not in a bad way. I think she understands that right now Emily needs her space. After a while, we leave for tea, but after half an hour of stilted conversation we’re both back on the same sofa, watching yet another imported film. Apparently, these guys believe that the other dimension has a vastly superior entertainment industry. I guess they have enough time to dedicate to that sort of thing, since they’re not dodging warlords and endbringers.  
  
Time passes, and the sun disappears over the horizon. We’re still there, in the dark. I look up, and see tears falling down Emily’s face. I raise myself up until my head is centimeters from her own, and she descends into open sobbing. I’m stuck. I have no idea what to do. If I had my board, then I could ask her what’s wrong, but I just know that I can’t leave her now. The moment I stop looking at her, she’ll be gone. I reach out with a hand and turn her head until she’s looking me dead in the eye. She doesn’t resist.  
  
My left hand rises to rest on her shoulder, and I just wait for her to give voice to her worries.  
  
“I just… You’ve all been so kind to me, and…”  
  
And you don’t know why. You’ve gone from being hunted like an animal, sleeping wherever you can and going ignored by the rest of society. You probably thought we were going to kill you when we first showed up. Instead, we’ve dragged you off the street and looked after you. You could have left the street whenever you wanted, the cops would have overlooked your crimes as the act of a desperate girl. You’re full of guilt, and you think you deserve to live a miserable life.  
  
I know just how you feel, sometimes.  
  
I reach out with my right hand and poke her in the chest. A small bead of blood wells up, and I look at the speck of red on my finger. I close my hand into a fist, and rap it against my chest twice, the armored claw clacking against the plates of bone.  
  
You’re one of us. We are the same.  
  
She breaks down, and wraps her arms around my neck. She cries and cries and cries and I let the salty tears flow across my skin. It’s not your fault. You’re not to blame. Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.


	22. Interlude: Rey Andino

I take a deep puff of my cigarette, letting the fumes gather in my mouth before exhaling it in a solid puff of smoke. Drawing my hand away from my mouth, I look at the last stubs of marijuana and frown, flicking the ash onto the ground before dropping the butt. With a step of my neatly polished shoes, the brown filter is driven into the pavement.  
  
The mild drug helps to clear my head, to reduce the influence of dozens of clawing creatures competing for space in my mind. There are more of them than ever before, but their pressure has lessened. It’s as if they understand what I’m doing here and know that it will bring them closer to reality. Back in Boston, back in my lab, the urge to create would have consumed me for days, but now they’re just a flicker on the edge of my consciousness.  
  
My concerns are more immediate. I can feel the constricting presence of a tie around my neck. It’s the first time I’ve worn a suit in years, but I could hardly turn up here in a lab coat. My hair has been slicked back with gel, and I’ve made an effort to straighten myself up into some rough stab at respectability. I lean into the wind, feeling the sensation of the breeze passing over my skin. I haven’t felt that sensation in quite some time. Contrary to popular opinion, I always went masked. A specially grown fungus mask served to change my face, and preserve my identity.  
  
I left it behind in Boston along with everything I owned, save for a single briefcase.  
  
I’ll have no need of them in Washington D.C.  
  
Ah, Washington. The gleaming capital of our fair nation. The city where the American Dream comes to die.  
  
Oh, sure, it looks nice enough from a distance. Lots of pretty white buildings with important-sounding names. It’s one of the most desirable places to live in the country, and has the single lowest parahuman crime rate of any city in the world, now that Canberra's in ruins. It’s a city of smartly dressed men and women who flow from place to place like suited cogs in a great machine. Or cells in the organism of state.  
  
Of course, like all places, Washington’s beauty is only skin deep. The senators and congressmen who live and work here might be happy for the rest of the country to run about in spandex, but they’ll be damned if their lobbying gets interrupted by some masked loon. Who can say which of the many suited professionals sipping cups of coffee are actually Secret Service agents? Some poor fucker tries to rob a bank here and he’ll be coughing up his own lungs within seconds, cut down in a hail of lasers fired from Tinkertech micro-pistols.  
  
Around the corner, an armored black shape turns. This is the second part of Washington’s security, the kind meant to give even the Slaughterhouse 9 pause. Modified APC’s, festooned with gaudy tinkertech, remind the populace that they are always being watched, and that the brain of the American organism will not suffer attacks. The jet-black vehicle carries a squad of men more armored than even the PRT, and the bold white letters on its flank declare its allegiance to the world. Painting ‘Secret Service’ on the side of your tank would be a little ironic, if it wasn’t so fucking menacing.  
  
Part of me flinches as it passes, convinced that it can somehow look into my brain and sound me out as a parahuman. It can’t, of course. Not even Cranial has managed to build a device that can detect parahumans at range. Lauren subtly angles her head so that the tank’s crew can’t see her face. She’s nervous, out here in the heart of the enemy without her mask. I can see the fear on her face, I’ve certainly modelled it enough on my creations.  
  
I put my hand on her shoulder, and she looks up. Like me, she’s dressed in a smart suit that fits in perfectly with everyone else in this city, save for the tourists who stand out wherever they go. Like me, she’s not wearing a mask and her black hair is flowing freely in the steady breeze.  
  
“We’ll be alright, Lauren. This is a chance to start over, away from all this.”  
  
She sighs. Sometimes I wonder if she actually tells me what she wants, or just what she thinks will make me happy. I’ve spent so long basically ignoring her that I just can’t tell anymore.  
  
“I know, Rey, but I’m worried. This is Washington. We can’t be here.”  
  
“Now, now. Blasto and Bad Apple can’t be here, but we left them behind in Boston. Rey and Lauren have as much right to be in Washington as any full blooded Americans. We’ll be fine, Lauren. And I’m not just talking about now.”  
  
She leans in for a kiss, and I oblige her.  
  
We move further and further into the city, just one more pair of worker bees in the hive. Around us rise the old embassies of half the world. Once, this area would have been filled with the rumble of diplomatic cars as the whole world gathered to make deals with the United States. Now, much of Embassy Row is empty, or given over to commercial use. Whole swathes of the word are crumbling, or falling under control of Parahuman warlords, and bit-by-bit the civilized nations of the world are becoming more and more isolated.  
  
There’s the Liberian embassy. A state so inherently tied to this nation that they took our flag as their own, and yet their nation has fallen into anarchy, and their embassy has been sold off to a tech start up. There’s the Sultanate of Oman, a rising power exploiting the collapse of Africa to rebuild their ancient empire on Africa’s eastern coast. They’re an autocracy, but at least they’re led by a human. Whole swathes of the map have simply disappeared, nations states thousands of years old having fallen by the wayside. In some places, the earth itself is being distorted by the aftermath of Parahuman warfare.  
  
It’s not something I’d ever paid attention to. Why should the world bother me, when all I ever needed was space in which to conduct my experiments? What a fool I was; a blind man stumbling about in the dark, ignoring the light all around him. We’ve fucked this world, us Parahumans, and I don’t know if it’ll ever recover. The US isn’t much better. We’re two steps away from anarchy, sealing away entire cities to try and contain the madness.  
  
What kind of future are we building? Will there even be a future? Will my visions ever become reality?  
  
A stab of errant thought brings me back to the here and now. I will make these beautiful things, and I will acquire the resources to make them. The building looms over me, glorious in white brick and set beside a broad avenue. I walk up to its doors with the gait of a condemned prisoner, Lauren trailing nervously behind me. There’s a guard on the other side of the door, a uniformed but unarmed soldier. I’m all too aware of the stockpile of weaponry I abandoned back in Boston, close to a decade of work just left to rot and decay.  
  
I walk up to the receptionist with an uneasy smile. The office itself is nicely furnished, with a marble floor and a few paintings on the wall.  
  
“Rey Andino. Here to see Mister Munshi.”  
  
“Of course, Mister Andino,” she flashes me a smile, “Mister Munshi has been expecting you. Please take a seat, and someone will be down shortly to escort you to him.”  
  
There’s a row of plush leather sofas set against the wall, with a few other visitors eying me warily from them. I guess we look a little out of place here. Lauren takes a seat next to me and starts idly flicking through some fashion magazine, though I can tell her heart isn’t in it. There’s a lot going unsaid between us, and I’m well aware of just how much she’s giving up to follow me.  
  
“I’ve wronged you. I understand that now. I was never there for you, but you were always there for me. Things will be-”  
  
“Don’t. Don’t make that promise, Rey. I know you’ll try, but I think you’ll end up throwing yourself deeper into your work than ever before. I’m okay with that. I’m in this because I love you, Rey, and I want to support you any way I can. Just remember me, when you can.”  
  
I reach over to take her hand in my own, and hold onto her like she’s freefalling beneath me, and my arm is the only thing between her and certain death.  
  
“Alright. But things will be better. I won’t be on my own anymore, and the others will keep me sane. I just need you to keep them in line.”  
  
She laughs, a little.  
  
“I can do that. I’ll be your loyal enforcer.”  
  
The sound of footsteps on marble draws our attention away, and a neatly dressed young woman moves towards us.  
  
“Mister Andino? I’m Miss Chetti, aide to Mister Munshi. If you could follow me, please.”  
  
She leads us past a magnetically locked door, then through a security checkpoint where a uniformed guard waves a metal wand over us. My briefcase is put through an x-ray machine, but they don’t ask me to open it. From there, it’s a short elevator ride up to the fourth floor. This is the beating heart of the building, with small teams of people working from clearly labelled offices. At the end of the floor is a smaller reception, currently unoccupied. This must be Miss Chetti’s station.  
  
She opens a door set off to the side of her desk, and gestures for us to enter. Behind the door is a neatly furnished office, with a patterned carpet, a view out into the city and a flag set behind a mahogany desk. A brief flash through my mind assesses the material, before determining a composite of grown ivory that would be both more resilient and more aesthetically pleasing. That’s been happening a lot lately; it used to be that I’d have inspirations watching nature documentaries, but now the strangest things can set me off.  
  
Behind the desk sits a well-dressed man in a grey suit with an orange tie and a flag pin on his lapel. Mister Munshi rises to shake my hand, and Lauren’s, before gesturing to a pair of wooden chairs set in front of the desk. I take the seat, sinking a little into the comfortable padding, and lean my briefcase up against the side.  
  
“It’s wonderful to meet you at last, Mister Andino. Or do you prefer Blasto?”  
  
We share an easy smile.  
  
“Mister Andino will do fine, thanks. As far as I’m concerned, I left Blasto behind in Boston.”  
  
“Indeed. A clean break; I can understand the sentiment. I must say, our conversation over the phone was illuminating, but naturally there were some things which simply couldn’t be discussed. So, I must ask. What exactly is this all about?”  
  
I take a second to clear my throat, before the secretary offers me a glass of water.  
  
“Thank you. As you are aware, Mister Munshi, I am an independent Tinker with a biological specialization. This has placed me under considerable financial pressure; unlike other Tinkers I cannot get by on salvage from junkyards. I had resigned myself to scrabbling about for supplies, and deluded myself into thinking I could fuel my experiments through criminal activity.”  
  
Mister Munshi’s lip curls up into a wry grin.  
  
“But it isn’t enough?”  
  
I smile back in return.  
  
“Indeed. I recently had a chance to see the work of another in my field, and I came to realize how inadequate my efforts have been. Parahumans have a psychological compulsion to use our abilities, and my inability to fully exploit my powers has been having an adverse effect on my mental health.”  
  
I glance quickly to my right, seeing Lauren looking back at me with some undeterminable expression on her face.  
  
“I need resources, and you have resources.”  
  
“I see. Why come to us, though? Surely your PRT would be more than happy to employ a man of your talents.”  
  
I shake my head, and take another sip of my drink.  
  
“No. For the past ten years I have been a criminal. If I were to turn sides now, the PRT would place an unseemly amount of restrictions on me. Worse than that is the fact that the United States already has three rogue Biotinkers in Nilbog, Bonesaw and the Bayou King, who are responsible for thousands of deaths. That clouds people’s perception of men like me.”  
  
“So, it is in your advantage to come to us. But why is it in our advantage to go to you?”  
  
“Right now, my main problem is one of finesse. I can grow almost anything, but I only have limited control over how it grows. If you were to provide me with a staff of surgeons, biologists and engineers, then I could begin flesh-sculpting my creations. That would allow for a much greater degree of control, and would pave the way for limited biological intelligence.”  
  
“Imagine squadrons of monsters coated in plates of bone strong enough to resist any man-portable weapon, controlled by signals transmitted directly into their brains by a computer system and capable of keeping pace with tanks. Imagine a force of utterly disposable assets that can be safely used in place of human lives. With the proper resources, I estimate you could have a force of sixteen-thousand beasts by June of next year.”  
  
That’s got his attention.  
  
“Your old enemy has collapsed, but so has any semblance of rational government from them. You have warlords to the north, parahuman tyrants who cannot be trusted to act in any rational way. These beasts would give you an incredibly mobile fighting force, capable of securing your northern frontier.”  
  
She was right; give them a fighter, something flashy and exotic, and they’ll be far more interested in that than anything really useful. That’s why I led with this, rather than the really good stuff.  
  
“Additionally, I believe I can have an impact on the infrastructure of your nation. You have the fastest growing population in the world, but your infrastructure is struggling to keep up. I have a number of theoretical proposals that could alleviate that issue, such as growing roads from polyp-growths rather than spending time excavating them. You are also still a significant seafaring power, but the insurance premiums are rising. By growing hulls from bone, you could cut costs massively and maintain your control over the Suez/Singapore route. I can make your nation the envy of the world. All I ask is your support.”  
  
The Ambassador sits in silence for a while, mulling over his thoughts while I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat.  
  
“Your proposals have merit, and the President himself has authorized me to make you an offer. If you accept, you will be commissioned into the Indian Army as a Colonel, and assigned to our Special Projects branch. You will be given a facility, and a staff of two hundred personnel to be personally vetted by yourself. You will present the Ministry of Defence with your proposed creations, the same as any other research group, and the Treasury will run the costs.”  
  
I’d like to say I wait for a while to consider his offer, but in truth my mind immediately fills with endless designs and I practically smack the Ambassador in the face as I move to shake his hand. He grins at my obvious enthusiasm. He didn’t even need to mention payment, though I’m sure his offer is very generous.  
  
He turns slightly to look at Lauren.  
  
“Miss Prett. You are offered a Captaincy under Mister Andino’s command and leadership of a government sponsored Thanda team assigned to his security; the ‘Cold’ Capes.”  
  
Lauren speaks up, without a moment’s hesitation. In that moment, I truly love her.  
  
“So long as I’m with Ray, I’m happy.”  
  
“Excellent. I’m afraid a change of name will be necessary. The Thanda are secretive, and prefer names that would not appear out of place in normal conversation.”  
  
Lauren’s a little stuck at that. She’s always had trouble with names, but eventually she manages to latch onto something.  
  
“Eve.”  
  
I can’t say I’m surprised that it’s yet another apple reference. Lauren’s made it very clear that she wants to set a clear theme, so that there’s no confusion between her and another cape. She shakes the Ambassador’s hand.  
  
“Excellent. Now, for the commission. Miss Chetti, can you fetch Subedar-Major Gupta? I have the authority to administer the oath, but we need a soldier as a witness.”  
  
The secretary returns after a moment with a short, barrel-chested, man whose small stature hides an obvious viciousness. He’s dressed in the same brown uniform as the guard at the entrance, but with different insignia. I suppose I’ll need to learn what that stuff means, or I could just let Lauren handle it for me.  
  
“If you can repeat after me please-”  
  
“I, Rey Andino, hereby solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of India, as by law established and that I will, as in duty bound honestly and faithfully, serve in the regular Army of the Union of India and go wherever ordered, by land, sea or air, and that I will observe and obey all the commands of the President of the Union of India and the commands of any officer set above me, even to the peril of my life.”  
  
I put my signature to a form, and beside me Lauren does the same. The ambassador rises and shakes both our hands, congratulating us on our newfound Indian citizenship before handing us plane tickets for a flight that leaves in four hours. We make our way to leave, and the short-barreled soldier salutes us as we go. I barely notice it. My mind is filled with endless possibilities, racing through designs at a lightning pace. The world will forget Blasto, but I’ll make sure Colonel Rey Andino is remembered forever.  
  
By my side, Captain Lauren Prett locks her arm with my own, leaning her head on my shoulder. In my other hand I hold a briefcase, filled with the most valuable things I own. The only things I own, for now at least. Trace DNA from the world’s rarest species, skin samples from one of Nilbog’s beasts, the remaining blood samples from Khanivore and a single white feather.  
  
The Morrigan is more than just a fantasy now.


	23. Expedition: 4.01

“Hey Sonnie, help me with something?”  
  
Faultline creeps into my eyesight, standing in between me and the TV. And it is Faultline, not Melanie; she’s dressed in her costume, save for her mask. I roll myself off the sofa with what I assume is catlike grace, but probably looks more like a lumbering elephant. It’s the early afternoon, and I’m letting my food settle by doing nothing. Then I was planning on doing some more nothing later, followed by dinner and then eight hours in the tank.  
  
I can probably fit in some time to humor Faultline. I nod at her.  
  
“Great. I’m meeting with a potential client on the second floor and I could do with someone menacing off in the background. There’s no need to bring everyone in, as the client’s pretty trustworthy, but people expect a certain flair.”  
  
I get it. You want me to be the pin-up girl to sell the Crew to this client. Well, roger that boss-lady. I flash my pearly whites and fully commit myself to getting up. Through the window, I can see great sheets of rain falling onto the city. Some part of me wants to go out there, to run along the rooftops and feel the water patter on my flesh. But it’s broad daylight, and I doubt I’d be able to pass unnoticed.  
  
So, I’m stuck inside for now, along with the rest of us. Even Emily’s stuck here, unless she wants to risk being questioned over why she isn’t in school. Faultline’s doing her best to bring the girl through a few lessons, along with Newter. I can see Emily relaxing in the room she shares with Elle, her half of the room looking a little more personal now. She’s been busy since joining us, and her space has been covered with posters and magazines, as well as a set of shelves covered with a small but growing collection of books and CDs. She’s lying back on her bed, dressed in some branded tee shirt and sweatpants, listening to some retro music being played over speakers. Well, it’s retro to me.  
  
As I pass, she looks up and flashes me a grin. I raise two fingers to my brow in mock salute, and look briefly at the other girl in the room. Elle’s side is as spartan as ever, save for a fancy duvet cover that I’m pretty sure was a gift from Faultline. The kisa is sitting in the corner, cross-legged and staring off into space. Emily hasn’t taken well to Elle’s bad days, but she has learned to adapt and she cares for the kid as much as the rest of us. The line between the two halves is crystal clear, but none of us are willing to intrude on what is very clearly Elle’s space. Anything we did put there would probably end up warped after a while anyway.  
  
Newter’s off in his room, I can tell thanks to the din from some obnoxious video game, while Gregor’s out in the city somewhere. I think he likes the rain; fewer people about. As I descent the staircase to the second floor, taking care not to scrape my head against the low ceiling, I catch site of the club floor. It’s dead quiet now, with only a couple of customers at the bar. This isn’t a pub, full of a steady stream of patrons at all hours of the day, but it still has the occasional group come in for a spot of day drinking. It comes alive at night, though, with a passion and intensity that still manages to surprise me. Small wonder, then, that Newter spends half his life living the high life here.  
  
Normally, this is his domain; a marketplace of women selling their company to him in exchange for an hour of bliss. For now, however, it’s empty except for one of the club staff, a middle-aged woman going about cleaning up the couches. She pales a bit at me, but by now the staff here are used to us. If they weren’t, then they wouldn’t have a job. This is our castle, and fuck anyone who says otherwise.  
  
My little pile of cushions is still in the corner of the mezzanine. Apparently, people got the hint after I kept setting it back up each night. It’s part of the club now, and a couple of times I’ve had to gently pry comatose women off it. Right now, though, it’s unoccupied and enticing. I sprawl across it like a dragon atop a pile of gold, and just wait while I listen to the ambient sounds of the club below; the clink of glasses, the murmur of conversation and the low hum of music.  
  
Faultline joins me shortly, her helmet-slash-welding mask hiding her face and the fake spiny ponytail strapped to the back of her head. She looks at me for a moment before taking a seat on a semicircular sofa surrounding a coffee table. One of the staff brings her up a tall cocktail with a straw, a tiny umbrella and a slice of lemon. I’m pretty sure that it’s a non-alcoholic mock up. I guess when you conduct your criminal business in a club then you have to maintain a certain image.  
  
After another few minutes, which Faultline spends sipping at her drink with the straw under her helmet, one of the Palanquin’s bouncers comes up the stairs, with two people at his back. The bouncers are good people, ex-army or police usually, with a relaxed attitude that helps them act calmly. The last thing you want is some berserk bastard who’ll fly off the handle at the slightest provocation. This is supposed to be a sophisticated place.  
  
His ‘guests’ must be our clients. They certainly look like capes. I lazily fix them with one eye, not even bothering to move my head, to try and get the measure of them. The first is a tall man with brown skin, dressed in some warped combination of a fireman’s outfit and body armor. He’s wearing some strange helmet with a tinted visor across the top half of his face, and there’s a frisky looking pistol strapped to his thigh. Faultline doesn’t seem to mind the armed guest, and I know for a fact that she has a pistol of her own taped to the underside of the coffee table.  
  
The second guest is a girl in her late teens following slightly behind the fireman. Her fiery red hair is tied up in a long ponytail behind her head, and she’s wearing some sort of armor that hugs her curves. The plates look like they’re made of tinted glass, like a stained-glass window in an old church, and the plates and scales slide over each other smoothly as she walks. The top half of her face is covered by a mask formed from a solid piece of red glass, including over her eyes. The two capes take a seat on the other side of the couch from Faultline, and I spot glasses sneaking a quick look my way.  
  
“Pyrotechnical, Bauble, welcome to Palanquin. Can we interest you in any refreshments?”  
  
One of the club’s prettier staff appears from nowhere, ready to fetch the clients’ drinks. It’s all a part of the display we’re putting on; a professional bouncer, a pretty face and a monster off in the corner. Ideally, it’ll be sending the message that we’re not to be fucked with, and that we’re a lot more professional than most capes. The two order drinks, both with a low alcohol content, and the waitress disappears down the stairs, reappears moments later with two drinks and then disappears again, closing the door behind her.  
  
And so, pleasure turns to business.  
  
“Thank you for meeting with us at such short notice, Faultline.”  
  
“Think nothing of it. Toybox has a reputation worth listening to.”  
  
It’s quite funny, how they’re trying their best to ignore the octopus in the room. Pyrotechnical’s a lot better at it than Bauble.  
  
“We’re looking to hire you for a rather urgent job. We’re prepared to pay two hundred thousand on completion.”  
  
That’s a tempting offer, but they still have to face Faultline, master negotiator.  
  
“I’ll need specifics, details. Any information you give me, no matter how small, will help us help you. Especially if you want this done fast.”  
  
The big guy pauses for a moment, but he knows he’ll get nowhere fast if he’s a prick about this. They’re desperate, and we can use that.  
  
“We’ve been robbed. Four weeks ago, a team of independent Villains from Pittsburgh approached us with an offer to purchase some tech. The offer seemed legit, and we agreed to meet with them, only for them to betray us.”  
  
Faultline’s mask is impassive, showing no reaction whatsoever.  
  
“Who are they, and what did they take?”  
  
Pyrotechnical’s hesitating, but he’ll get nowhere fast if he isn’t open.  
  
“They’re called the Steel Company, a team of five villains who only formed around six months ago.”  
  
“If they’re that new, then how did they have the money to afford your services?”  
  
The girl speaks up now, tearing her nervous eyes away from me.  
  
“We assumed they were acting as someone else’s agents. We now believe they were hired to steal the product, rather than collect it.”  
  
Faultline fixes the two Tinkers with a pointed glare.  
  
“You still haven’t told me what the product is. It could help in tracking them down.”  
  
The two look a little sheepish at that, before Pyrotechnical rallies.  
  
“It’s a briefcase fusion reactor. Popular with a lot of tinkers looking to power their labs off the grid.”  
  
“Can it be weaponized?”  
  
The fireman looks a little insulted at that, while glasses just looks shocked.  
  
“What? No! It’s a fusion reactor. That’s what it does. Kilowatt doesn’t make bombs, and I wish people would stop asking him to.”  
  
“So, we’re looking for another tinker, then. Or someone who needs a lot of power. Do you have any idea of where they are now?”  
  
Pyrotechnical rallies, abandoning his outburst.  
  
“We know they’ve left Pittsburgh and were heading West-North-West. Cyberspace is tracking them when she can, and we’ve had a couple of hits through some townships.”  
  
Faultline takes another sip of her drink as she works through scenarios in her head. The two tinkers haven’t touched their drinks.  
  
“Probably heading to Chicago or Detroit. If you can get us out there fast enough, we should be able to hit them when they next stop.”  
  
“We have an aircraft waiting to take you to Ohio. Find these bastards, and teach them a lesson.”  
  
“We’re not murderers.”  
  
Bauble’s face pales a little.  
  
“Neither are we, but we can’t let this slide. Find them, cripple them, beat them black and blue, and ask them who their employer is. Once you know, we’ll set up a rendezvous with PRT District Q7, who’ll see they’re locked up for a long time.”  
  
The name means nothing to me.  
  
“Q7? What do they have to do with this?”  
  
“They’re nearby.” Pyrotechnical’s reply is brusque. “Dragon may have built their security system but it’s a Toybox reactor that powers it. They work closely with us, and are willing to cooperate on this.”  
  
That seems to satisfy Faultline, though she still looks a little uneasy for whatever reason.  
  
“Acceptable. There’s just one matter left to discuss.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Bauble interrupts. “You need to get out there and find them!”  
  
Ah, that wonderful desperation.  
  
“I’ve read your catalogue. These reactors sell for two million. Two hundred thousand simply won’t cut it.”  
  
“We can be a little flexible in payment…” Pyrotechnical sounds uncertain, and Faultline pounces on that uncertainty.  
  
“You’ll pay us two hundred and fifty thousand, and you’ll set up a consultation with Cranial for when the job’s done.”  
  
“What do you want with her?”  
  
“To be honest, Bauble, I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”  
  
That’s pissed her off. She half-rises out of her chair, and I let out a low and menacing growl. Bauble darts a look off to the side, taking in a view full of claws and teeth and spikes, and her hand slowly drifts down to her side. Pyrotechical looks a little on edge.  
  
“Settle down, Khanivore. I’m sure she meant nothing by it.”  
  
Whatever you say, boss. I flop back down onto the pile of softness, as the two tinkers start to realize just how out of their depth they are. I’ve heard a little about Toybox, and I’ve come to understand that no matter how mysterious and enigmatic they try to seem, they’re really just a bunch of kids playing at being mysterious. The clue’s in the name.  
  
Pyrotechnical clears his throat.  
  
“Your terms are acceptable, Faultline. Transport leaves in two hours from Caspian Lake, just outside town.”  
  
Faultline shakes hands with the two tinkers, and they make their way down into the club. Their drinks are still on the table, untouched. Faultline moves upstairs to rally the troops, and I follow her.  
  
The next hour passes in a blur. Faultline and I carry crates of weapons and equipment down into the minibus, while the others get ready to go to war. Newter and Gregor have little to prepare, but Spitfire takes a while to put on her new suit. The moment she joined, Faultline put in an order for some better equipment. Her face is now concealed by a reinforced gas mask with the filters removed, while a fireproof suit hugs her body and covers her hair. The suit is done up in red and black, and serves to protect her from the heat of her own flames. Like the rest of the crew, it’s a fine example of paramilitary chic.  
  
Within what feels like moments, our minibus is making its way out of Brockton Bay and into the open countryside. I’m sprawled out in the back again, but the bus is a little more crowded than before. It’s amazing, the difference that one person can make to the space back here. Spitfire’s on one of the seats, glancing about nervously. She’s not looking forward to this, I can tell, but she understands that this is the reason we brought her in. She’s willing to accept the kindness of strangers, so long as it comes with a price she can see.  
  
I wonder if she’ll be able to handle the pressure.  
  
Once we’ve left the city, Faultline’s phone buzzes with a text from Toybox, and she veers off onto a dirt road. We drive through a forest, and I stare out the window, enraptured by the trees. There’s just so much greenery here, and so close to the city. It’s a truly incredible sight.  
  
The road could be better, though. We’re jostled and shaken all the way through the forest, until the road levels out a little as we pull out into a clearing before a lake. Out the window, I can see the leaves waving in the downdraft of a truly immense aircraft that’s hovering over the lake. It has two long wings, with an engine at each wingtip. The VTOL aircraft is more advanced than anything I’ve ever seen, and it’s practically stationary as it hovers over the lake. The rear of the aircraft splits, revealing a ramp wide enough to fit our entire van. The ramp drops, and settles into the sediment on the shore of the lake. Faultline drives us right up into the belly of the aircraft, and the ramp raises itself to shut out the sediment.  
  
After a moment, lights flicker on throughout the hold. Beyond the hull, I hear the engines straining with effort as the aircraft rises off the ground. The plane must be a toybox creation. They’re really pulling out all the stops on this one.  
  
I turn myself around and open the rear doors of the van to stretch my legs during the flight; there’s not enough space for the side doors to open. Spitfire follows me, her eyes wide behind the featureless gas mask. Without windows, the only indication of movement is the gentle rocking of the aircraft as it slips through the clouds, and the sense of pressure in my ear as we gain height. I’ve never been on a plane before.  
  
It’s less impressive than I thought it would be.


	24. Expedition - 4.02

After hours spent plodding up and down the tiny hanger, a nameless voice comes through the overhead speakers, directing us to prepare for landing. There’s the slightest of sensations as we descend, but I still can’t see or feel anything like the turbulence I expected. There’s not even a shudder as we touch the ground, just the mechanical whirr of the ramp lowering. Faultline reverses us out, and I see why. The aircraft is hovering by the side of a road, sending waves of force through an enormous lake of muddy water. The ramp itself was dropped onto a small track that ran along the shore of the river, before ending in front of a few buildings.  
  
The moment we’ve cleared the aircraft, its engines rotate on their axis to send the plane rising up and across the lake, leaving us behind. We drive up to the small cluster of buildings, apparently abandoned, and I make out a small sign identifying this place as Winous Point. We pass it, driving up through the marsh and scrubland. It’s a blasted patch of land, nowhere near the beauty of the forest, but I can still appreciate that it’s a natural wasteland, rather than an unnatural one.  
  
We’re around half a kilometer up the track when Faultline’s phone rings. She passes it to Gregor, who sets it on speakerphone so that we can all hear.  
  
“Yo, mercs. I’m Cyberspace. Pyrotechnical asked me to track these fuckers for you guys, since we know you’re more the smash-and-grab types.”  
  
Her accent’s a little odd, like someone trying and failing to sound Spanish, and she obviously dislikes us. I can also tell that Faultline dislikes her. She certainly sounds pissed when she responds.  
  
“What do you have for us?”  
  
“I’ve linked their cape identities to their civ ones. They’re not nearly as clever online as they think.”  
  
“Doesn’t that violate the unwritten rules?” Gregor rumbles from the back of the van.  
  
“Rule one takes priority.”  
  
“What’s rule one?”  
  
Spitfire’s fucked up there. I can hear the self-satisfied smirk in the tinker’s voice.  
  
“Don’t fuck with Toybox. Y’see girly,” she sounds no older than eighteen, “we sell to everyone, and we mean everyone. If Heartbreaker wanted to buy a set of Tinkertech curling irons as a gift for his newest squeeze, then we’d sell them to him, with a few precautions. That’s how we survive.”  
  
“It’s like, last week I did a job for Gruppenfuhrer out in Columbus. You know him, right? The chief toady to the Illinois Nazis? Their platform is to hang people like me from the nearest underpass, but their money’s green so I made them a virus aimed at disabling the servers of a few political rivals. Those guys might be pissed, but they can just come to me and buy Antivirus software. Toybox is a marketplace, not a faction.”  
  
Faultline cuts her off.  
  
“Cyberspace. What can you tell us about the Steel Company? We’re not going in blind.”  
  
She clearly doesn’t appreciate being cut off.  
  
“Whatever you say, merc. The Steel Company are sort of corporate capes. They started out as a group of independents brought together to put down a strike in the steelyards. Since then, they’ve done a mix of jobs for the companies and for themselves.”  
  
“I don’t need background. I need to know who they are.”  
  
Laughter comes through the speakers.  
  
“Well, aren’t you impatient? Okay. They’ve got five capes, and they work very well as a team. Most of that’s down to their leader, Pinkerton. He’s a thinker who’s very good at reading an individual opponent’s moves. Without his leadership, the Steel Company wouldn’t be half as effective.”  
  
“His deputy is a guy who goes by Agent Orange, for some reason. He’s an ex grunt, and he can create clouds of some kind of extra strong tear gas. You also don’t want to know the kind of porn he watches.”  
  
“Well you’re just every guy’s worst nightmare, aren’t you?”  
  
Newter looks a little worried. I give him another lewd grin, but it doesn’t seem to help.  
  
“You know it!”  
  
“They’ve got a brute who goes by Teamster. He basically grows flesh and muscle on top of his body. Not that anyone without access to his webcam would know that. He mostly appears in public as a person-shaped pile of muscle.”  
  
Bagsy, I bagsy that one. Been looking for someone to go all slice-and-dice on since I got here.  
  
“Their last member is supposedly a girl named Buckshot, who sends these adorkable texts to her girlfriend. She can disintegrate metal into a cloud of pellets, which she uses like a shotgun.”  
  
“They have a fifth member, though. One they don’t really advertise. She’s a ghost, in that she’s capable of blending into a crowd. She’s the one they use when they need a strike to turn into a riot. A Molotov cocktail thrown at the right head can make a world of difference. One thing I don’t get is her name. She’s as vanilla as they come, but she calls herself Deep Throat.”  
  
Faultline sighs at the front of the van. I mean, it’s a little crass but it’s hardly worth splitting hairs over.  
  
“Is that one word or two?”  
  
“Two. It’s like she’s trying to hide it, but not very hard.”  
  
Faultline actually groans. She seems genuinely pissed off by something.  
  
“You don’t care for history much, do you?”  
  
Harsh, grating laughter filled the van.  
  
“Fuck the past. The future is now, merc. History began with the internet, and it’ll never end.”  
  
That put an end to all conversation. I don’t really disagree with her, I can’t remember shit about 20 cen history, but she’s still being a bitch about it.  
  
“Okay. I’m keeping an eye out for them, but all their devices are turned off. Just keep heading North-West for now, you’ll either catch up to them or overtake them. They’ll come online eventually; they’ve got a lot of ties to Pittsburgh.”  
  
We follow the main roads for a while, setting in to the steady familiarity of long journeys. Spitfire begins to get a little antsy; I guess she’s not used to long drives. I can’t really relate; I’ve probably spent more time on the road than off it, in one body or another. I’ve gotten used to zoning out and just losing myself in the drive, though it’s still a little weird to have someone else at the wheel. I sprawl myself out on the floor of the minibus, more grateful than ever that I don’t have to strap myself into a seat. Sure, I’d probably be a little fucked if we crash but it’s not like I’d be seriously hurt.  
  
I kind of stopped caring about safety sometime around the thirteenth death match.  
  
The forest surrounds us on both sides. That still takes some getting used to, and it manages to be worth prying my head off the floor. There’s so much empty space here, so much nothing between the towns. We sometimes passed through what little open country there was in England, but there wasn’t half as much as this. England grew back before cars or trains or any of that lark, and so every village was built within walking distance of ten others. Now they’ve all merged into towns and cities, or been subsumed by the larger metropolises.  
  
Well, I say now but I should probably say then. How the fuck do you describe something that has already happened in another dimension, but also happened in the future?  
  
I abandon that train of thought before my head starts to hurt, and settle down to a spot of tree gazing. There’s something wonderful about the deep forests, and the way the green leaves sway in the gentle breeze. It’s easily my new third favorite hobby, after booze and fights. The others don’t really seem to share my enthusiasm; Gregor’s nose deep in a book while Newter and Spitfire are both locked to their phones. Labyrinth’s looking out the window, but I can’t tell if that’s because she’s actually interested in what’s going on or she’s just zoning out.  
  
Of course, nothing lasts forever and soon the trees give way to open fields of every crop under the sun, with the occasional piece of farm equipment churning up the earth. Or doing whatever the fuck it is that farmers do. It’s nice as well, though I’ve seen this sort of industry before. Elle seems to agree with me, as she turns away from the window. We’re riding on in silence, quite relaxed given that we’ll be heading into a fight in a few hours. I guess it helps to be with professionals.  
  
“There’s a truck stop in a mile, anyone want something to eat?”  
  
Various grumbles of agreement come from the passengers, and soon we’re pulling off the main road and into some nowhere town, rather than the motorway services I was expecting. It looks like every other place we’ve passed through, with few buildings higher than three stories and more pick up trucks than I’ve seen on news stories about warlords in the Middle East. Maybe we should get a pick up truck? I could stand in the back and shoot at people with a machine gun. Maybe I should get a machine gun? They probably have really cool guns here, the kind that spit metal casings everywhere.  
  
A problem for another time. Right now, we’re pulling up on some fast food restaurant. I don’t recognize the name, but that doesn’t really mean anything. For a second I wonder about how exactly we’re going to handle this, before Faultline steers the minibus into the takeout lane. That makes sense. She turns, and asks everyone what they want to order. I can’t exactly say what I want, but luckily Faultline’s gotten pretty good at guessing for me.  
  
“Family-size bucket of fried chicken, right?”  
  
“Careful! You might get fat!”  
  
I nod, perhaps a little sheepishly, and swat at Newter’s head with a clawed hand. Luckily, he manages to duck out of the way at the very moment I realize just how shit of an idea that was. There’s no way I’m spending dinner tripping balls on the floor; my chicken would go cold. Speaking of, Faultline’s just reached the speaker now, and is having a little chat with some unseen teen. She’s still wearing her welding mask, and it makes her voice a little tinny.  
  
“Right, that’s a twelve-piece bucket, extra crispy, and an eight-piece bucket meal with two potato wedges. And six cokes.”  
  
The squeaky teen squeaks something back at us, and Faultline edges the van around to the front window. It’s a bit of a squeeze, but she manages it without scraping the paint. There’re a couple of cars ahead of us, but they leave fast enough. A family pulls up behind us in a four door, and I leer at them through the back window. They probably can’t see me, we’ve got tinted windows for a reason, but I swear one of the kids starts to look a little pale.  
  
It’s nothing compared to the look on the spotty girl who hands us our food. She jumps a little when she sees Faultline’s welding mask, before her eyes travel along the van taking in Gregor in the front, the two kids in masks, the orange guy and the enormous monster in the back. Her mouth drops in steadily mounting fear, until Faultline just leans through the window and takes the food. She even throws a few green bills on the counter, when the kid still doesn’t move. We only manage to make it to the end of the street before we all burst into laughter.  
  
The food is distributed, one bucket to me and the other to everyone else, and Gregor has the bright idea to make a picnic of it. There’s still been no word from our pissy hacker, so Faultline figures why the fuck not? She takes us out of town, and into one of the small forests that dot the countryside. She pulls the van up onto the side of the road, more of a dirt track really, and Spitfire slides open the side door to let some air in. The ground looks dry enough, so I lumber out of the van with a drink in one hand and a reasonably sized, proportionally, bucket of chicken in the other.  
  
There’s not much grass on the forest floor, just twigs and fallen leaves, but it’s comfortable enough, and I’m able to lean against a particularly mossy patch on a tree. It’s surprisingly comfortable, if a little uneven, and I spend a few moments just leaning back and looking up at the forest canopy, before deciding to eat my food before it gets cold. The girls have taken off their masks, and are currently working their way through pieces of chicken with a complete absence of feminine grace. I suppose I’m not one to talk, as I throw drumsticks in the air and swallow them whole, but, in all fairness, chewing wasn’t high on the requirements for Khanivore. I’m lucky to have a stomach at all.  
  
The others are chatting about nothing, and I join in where I can with evocative grunts and hand gestures. Only Spitfire seems a little distant, not really engaging with the chat and looking down at the floor. I’m wondering what, if anything, I can do about it when Faultline spots her discomfort. I should have figured she’d notice, Faultline’s very good at this leader schtick. She steps up from where she’s been sitting in the open door of the van, and moves over to sprawl out on the grass next to our newest member.  
  
“How are you holding up?”  
  
Emily’s seen Melanie come over, so I know she’s not surprised, but she still flinches a bit at her words. Melanie doesn’t press her, letting her work through her issues at her own pace.  
  
“I’m just a little worried. I’ve never been in a fight before, and we barely outnumber these guys.”  
  
Faultline leans back on her hands, catching the dwindling sunlight on her face. Emily, in contrast, seems to be drawing in on herself, hugging her knees to her chest. Her gas mask is resting on the ground beside her feet.  
  
“I’d be worried if you weren’t. Everyone has a first fight, Emily, and you’re already doing better off than most. The first fight I was ever in, if you could even call it that, was against a couple of wards who ran into me while I was robbing a gas station. They were just kids, but so was I, and I wasn’t nearly as used to my power as I am now. Gregor’s first fight was less than an hour after he woke up, with no memories of who or where he was. Some asshole from the Protectorate just started hounding him, and she didn’t stop until she died in an Endbringer fight.”  
  
She looks over to me and I grin back.  
  
“I don’t even know what Sonnie’s first fight was like, but I know she’s faced worse odds than any of us combined. You’re not like we were, because you’re not alone. You’re part of the most badass mercenary team on the East Coast, and we’ll have your back in there.”  
  
The slightest hint of a smile appears on Emily’s face, though she might have been putting on a false front.  
  
“I know, but I’m still worried.”  
  
Faultline’s arm finds purchase on her shoulder, and she pulls the smaller girl in close.  
  
“That’s good. That fear will keep you safe. I want you to stay near Gregor at the back. I’ll tell you where to fire at, but don’t be afraid to act on your own initiative if you need to. We’re a team, not a mob, and we each trust each other to do the right thing.”  
  
Spitfire nods, her face hardening a little, and she begins to sip at her drink. Conversation continues to flow after that, but it’s all a little more serious. Everyone’s getting into the right mindset for the job ahead, with Faultline going through how to handle each member of the Steel Company. I quickly realize that Faultline has a very good nose for this sort of thing; she’s clearly used to fighting parahumans, and she’s gotten very good at using that experience to negate the unpredictability of powers. It’s nice to have a strategist; none of the Predators really understood how I fought, just that I did. They were the boffins, but only I really got what went on in the pit.  
  
We finish our food, and I’m able to successfully argue that we should take the rubbish with us rather than littering in the forest. We’ve only been back on the road for a few minutes before Faultline’s phone rings again, and the van is filled once again with the not-Spanish accent of Cyberspace.  
  
“What’s up, mercs? Guess who just sent a sappy text to her girlfriend. Seems Buckshot’s feeling a little guilty about something, so she’s been steadily texting poor Elizabeth for a while now. It’s actually quite cute. I’ve got her down to somewhere in Fremont, so I suggest you step on it.”  
  
Faultline obliges her, and we pull into the fast lane as we shoot down the motorway. After another five minutes, in which the smell of fried chicken starts to waft through the van, we get another call.  
  
“I’ve got the bastards! All five of them, though I can’t see the reactor. Looks like they’re lying low overnight before heading on to their mystery boss tomorrow.”  
  
“We just need a location.”  
  
Faultline’s tone is all business, but I can tell she’s just as eager to join the hunt as the rest of us.  
  
“Yeah, about that. I kind of get why she’s feeling a little guilty. They’re in a place called the Ruby Club, a titty bar on West McPherson highway just outside of town. Go fuck ‘em up.”


	25. Expedition: 4.03

You know, when I heard titty bar, I pictured something a little more than this.  
  
Oh sure, it’s got all the parts of a strip club. There’re the blacked-out windows to preserve privacy and take away the customer’s sense of time, and the silhouettes of naked women on the sign that probably have absolutely no resemblance to the actual staff. The problem is the building itself; it’s just a little shit. For starters, it’s outside of the town. It’s just not right to have a strip club surrounded by fields; it should be underneath railway arches, or tucked into an alleyway at the heart of the city. It should be built into a converted pub, with a velvet rope and a bouncer at the door, not some prefab crap that looks like it was thrown up in an afternoon.  
  
But beggars can’t be choosers.  
  
We don’t go in right away; we’re smarter than that. Instead, Cyberspace hooks up Faultline’s smartphone to the club’s cameras, thank you wi-fi, and she points out the targets. They’re not in costume, which makes a lot of sense, and they’re all sitting around a circular table close to the center stage. Some of them are more in to the ‘entertainment’ than others. I reckon they must have picked this place because it’s out of the way. I mean, what sort of strip club has a car park?  
  
The blacked-out windows prevent us from being seen from inside, so we spread out in front of the club as Faultline lays out the plan. She points out where the table is, and tells me how far back from the wall it is. Then she places a hand against the wall and sends minute fractures rippling through its surface. Enough to weaken it, but not enough to send the whole thing toppling down. She looks back at us, the light of the setting sun reflecting off her welder’s mask.  
  
“Remember the plan. Newter, knock out Pinkerton first. Before he can get a read on you. Khanivore, take out Teamster. He’s the one with ginger hair and glasses. We don’t know how fast he can ramp up, so be ready for a slog.”  
  
I just grin, and scrape my claws against the ground. Apparently, Teamster covers himself with extraneous flesh and muscle, growing up to eighteen feet tall at times. That won’t help him here; the roof will keep him at around my height. All he can do is pile on flesh, not scales or chitin or any other armor, and I was made to carve through flesh.  
  
“Buckshot is the next biggest threat, though there’s probably not that much metal around. Gregor, I want you to deal with her. There’s probably not much she can do to you unless she chooses to go all out.”  
  
Gregor nods, his stomach visibly churning beneath his translucent skin as he concocts some noxious adhesive. Our homemade answer to containment foam.  
  
“Agent Orange shouldn’t be able to act without poisoning his teammates, but I don’t know how much fine control he has over his gas.”  
  
She turns to look at the last two members of our group, Spitfire wringing her hands together under her gas mask and Labyrinth just staring off into space as rotting grass spreads across the car park beneath her feet.  
  
“Deep Throat will probably disappear the moment we breach, so I want the two of you to keep your eyes on the crowds. Scare them off, if you can. The less people around, the fewer places she has to hide in.”  
  
Spitfire nods, smothering her uncertainty beneath a front of determination. She understands now, that this is happening and all she can do is fight. She’s found her edge.  
  
Faultline lifts her hand up from the wall, leaving a spiderweb of hairline fractures from where her hand had been, and steps aside. She turns to face the wall and lifts up three fingers on her left hand. She drops one, and I move onto all fours. She drops a second and I brace myself, pushing my taloned feet against the dirty surface of the car park. When her third finger falls, I spring forwards, propelling myself forwards with great loping strides as I build up momentum.  
  
I close my eyes, and drive the point of my crest into the center of the spiderweb, feeling the faintest touch of resistance before the walls break and shatter around me. The cool evening air and the sound of tires on asphalt is drowned out by the beating music of the club, and the screams of its patrons. I open my eyes, and see a roomful of people illuminated in the soft glow of red lighting. Four people sit at a table near the center stage, as a scantily clad woman leaps off the raised platform for safety. I barrel towards the table, knocking aside furniture and patrons, and watch the four react.  
  
They all stand up in shock, then back away a little when I don’t stop. I see one of them, ginger hair and glasses, move into my path as flesh bubbles up from his bare neck and slides down his body at a breakneck pace. Teamster. At the last second I throw my tail back, using the weight to lift myself up from all fours, and close a massive hand around his ever expanding neck. I feel flesh and sinew bubbling under my own, but no stabs of bone. The expanding mass begins to push at my hand, and bubbles of loose skin begin to cover me. Before that happens, I reach out and throw him away, tearing at the skin as I did so.  
  
He flies across the room, as the mass of flesh covers his clothes, and slams into the opposite wall. The impact shatters a chalkboard, and the shards of slate slice at his flesh as his mass grows and grows. Sharp cracks sound behind me and the wall in front of me is momentarily illuminated by an incandescent white light as the rest of the crew breaches the club with flashbangs. I ignore them, and rush towards the prone figure of Teamster as he hauls himself up to his feet. He’s covered from head to toe now in a mismatched mass of flesh and muscle, and he’s growing a little taller every second as yet more mass flows across his skin.  
  
I throw my weight against him, pushing him down to the ground, and tear at his flesh with great slashes from my clawed hands. Flecks of flesh and torn tendons fly in all directions as I carve into him, but more and more flesh manages to grow over his skin and up his back, giving him a hunchbacked appearance that raises his torso off the ground a little. His arms, which I have ignored to slice at his torso, flail at me with sinews and tendons visibly flexing at the effort. He manages to land a hit on my jaw and roll out from underneath my legs. He’s just barely small enough to make it, but he keeps on growing as he stands.  
  
Now my back’s against the wall, and I can see the rest of the Crew fighting behind us. Pinkerton’s managed to dodge Newter’s first blow, and is holding the orange malchick at bay with a chair. He must have figured out Newter’s range. Buckshot’s looking unnerved, but she leaps onto the stage with her braided hair flowing behind her. She slams her arms against the side of the pole, which snaps at both ends leaving her with a long cylinder. Without any visible movement, the cylinder slides back in her hand until she’s left with its entire length jutting out behind her.  
  
She fires, spraying clouds of particulate at Gregor as her makeshift magazine shrinks and shrinks. Gregor grunts in annoyance, before sending fluid through visibly juddering veins beneath his skin and shooting out a jet of noxious green fluid from his hands. Buckshot leaps away as the adhesive coats the stage, firing small metal shards now that depletes her ammunition faster but forces Gregor into cover. She’s about to take the second pole, but it bursts into flames as Spitfire coats it with a jet of flammable liquid.  
  
Teamster and I clash again, as he grows to nine feet tall. I still have the advantage in strength, but not enough of an advantage to break the stalemate. He draws me in closer and closer, and I start to snap at his distorted face with my enormous jaws. Teamster staggers back; my jaw’s still big enough to swallow a large part of his swollen head, and I leverage his uncertainty with a sweeping blow from my tail that scythes through his right ankle, cutting through his mass to the soft, human, tendon beneath.  
  
He staggers, and drops to one knee, and I use his fall to dig my claws deep into his side, before lifting him up and over my head. I look around for a moment to pick a target, and then hurl him across the room. He slams into the bar, smashing though the wooden counter and sending the shelves of spirits cascading down into a pile of glass and booze. To my left, Faultline looks up from where she’d been coordinating the others while sending cracks shooting through the floor to knock over Agent Orange. She gestures to the bar with her free hand, and shouts out a simple order.  
  
“Burn it!”  
  
Spitfire leaps into action, her edge turning fear into determination, and she spews out a long stream of brackish liquid which ignites in the air a meter from her face. This stream of liquid fire mixes in with the spirits behind the bar, and sends the entire wall up in a conflagration of blue and orange flames. Teamster writhes around in the fire, but it looks to be a psychological reaction rather than any real harm. His skin is blackening and peeling almost as fast as he can replace it, and this burning mass levers itself to its feet and steps out of the flames as burning liquid runs down his skin and onto the wipe-clean floor.  
  
I reach above my head and grab onto the scaffolding that held the lights for the stage. The wires come apart in a shower of sparks, and I’m soon left holding a trio of metal bars fused together into a long stretch of scaffolding. I sprint towards him, leaping onto the stage to gain height and sending Buckshot to the ground with a sweeping blow from my arm, before moving to drive my makeshift spear into his chest. He recognizes the threat, noting how the weapon could be driven through his torso and out the other side, and bats it away with a desperate gesture. I’m reminded that behind every Beast is a human intelligence.  
  
Before I can move in for a counterattack, I feel skin and muscle parting on my left arm, and the scrape of something against my carapace of fused bone. Buckshot is lying on the ground, her eyes wide with desperation and her leg gashed and bleeding. She’s ripping the legs off tables and sending them to me whole, short metal spears like the bolts of some ancient siege weapon. My attention is torn, divided between the immediate threat she poses and the constantly escalating threat of Teamster.  
  
The decision is taken out of my hands, however, as I watch the surface of the floor behind Buckshot shift and warp into dirty red carpet. The legs of the tables rust and wither, and when Buckshot takes up another bolt to hurl at me it turns to rust in her hands. When she tries to fire it, she drops the metal in anguish as jagged edges form and slice up her hand. I can see Labyrinth sitting cross-legged a few meters back, protected by Gregor and surrounded by an ever-growing area of filthy carpets and rusted wrought iron furniture, cast into tasteless motifs worthy of the sleaziest brothels.  
  
With Buckshot indisposed, I send another scything blow towards Teamster. It carves a deep gash across his chest, and he lumbers towards me like an angry gorilla, moving on all fours with elongated arms. He just keeps fucking growing! I split my tail and start stabbing at him with my tendrils, driving seventy-centimeter-long knives of bone into his skin over and over again. The wounds are just too small to make a difference. I need to make him lose a lot of mass, and quickly. He strikes at me with an elongated arm, and I’m barely able to divert the hammer blow with my tail, driving his fist into the floor.  
  
Then it strikes me. His arms, such as they are right now, are at least twice as long as his originals, and his flesh grows over his body rather than expanding it. There was a moment, a few seconds ago, when his elbows abruptly shifted down his arm. That must have been when his limbs grew long enough to be twice the length of his actual arm. I spend a little time thinking as I duck back from a pair of hammer blows, responding almost automatically with a flurry of spearing thrusts. His head looks a little more human than it did a few moments ago, and his eyes have gone from being sunken in pits to placed normally on his ‘face’.  
  
I think he’s in the oversized back, curled up into a ball like a newborn babe. Even if his arms are still in their sockets, I still have everything below the elbow to play with, or he’d be breaking his arm every time he throws a punch. I let out a roar, and point first to Gregor and then to Teamster’s left arm. He gets my meaning immediately, and I see another set of fluid bubble up through his arm before spraying out of his hand. His aim isn’t perfect, Teamster’s flailing around too much for that, but he manages to coat the massive hand in a viscous green fluid that sticks to the floor the moment the ape tries to move away.  
  
I pounce the moment Teamster’s right arm moves to free his left, and dig my claws into his wrist. I recombine my tail, and bring the enormous bladed tip up to his elbow. I start to saw, just below the joint, and I hear the beast howl in frustration. He might not be able to feel the pain of my attack, but I suspect he’s feeling his arm go numb as I cut through whatever freakish nerve clusters he’s managed to grow. The work is slow, and he’s starting to rip his left arm away from the floor, but his body’s shape means he can’t do much more than sit there and wait as I hack away. When the saws blade is deep enough, I add my jaws into the mix and start biting away at his flesh. I don’t have the time to risk spitting it out, so I just swallow and hope this doesn’t count as cannibalism.  
  
There’s no bone at the center, just thick cords of muscle tissue, and I tear away at the last strands of flesh with my arm, ripping away his arm entirely. As I'd thought, he stops growing as his power shifts its efforts towards restoring his lost arm. I hear a shout from behind me, and I leap back just in time for Teamster to erupt into flames yet again as Spitfire spews her particular brand of napalm directly onto his skin. I take a moment to count the casualties, looking around the club with a brief glance.  
  
There’s a heavy mist in one corner, no doubt the product of Agent Orange, but the man himself is lying unconscious on top of a table. Pinkerton has somehow managed to hold his own against Newter, and some of the orange man’s skin is now purple with bruising, but he’s slowing down. Suddenly, he stumbles, as the floor cracks beneath him, and Newter exploits that loss of balance to pounce onto him. Pinkerton is driven to the floor by an orange blur, and I watch as Newter slams his head repeatedly into the ground, until he passes out from either Newter’s chemicals or the blunt force trauma.  
  
Buckshot’s still clutching her wounded hand, but I can’t give her any more attention because I can hear an animalistic roar from the one-armed beast. He’s staggering a little, but he’s still on his feet. His skin is blackened and cracked, and parts of it are falling off in great chunks as his fucked up regenerative factor decides it’s better to replace the scorched flesh than attempt repairs. It seems Spitfire’s flames burn a lot hotter than some back-shelf spirits. Now’s my chance.  
  
I leap in again, driving my tendrils into the floor to raise me up to the ceiling then flooring the Brute with a well-placed kick to the back of the head. I drop to the floor, straddling the beast’s back and driving my tendrils into the ground to hold him down while I claw away at his back. He bucks and shifts under me, but his power is too busy fixing the burns to give him the strength needed to defeat me. I feel the earth crack around my tendrils as Faultline helps drive them deeper into the ground to give me an even stronger anchor.  
  
I scratch and bite at his flesh, tearing off great chunks with my mouth and levering aside muscle and flesh with my claws. I’m not trying to take his back off, just dig a deep enough pit to reach the person within. After a while, the harder flesh gives way to stickier stuff no doubt aimed at cushioning blows, but it just means I can proceed faster and faster. The flesh gets softer and softer until I hit a kind of membrane wall, which gives way to a flow of foul-smelling fluids. Inside, I see the fetal form of a teenage boy, his glasses somehow still on his head.  
  
I’m almost gentle as I reach into the fluid and place a clawed thumb against his throat. He winces a little as I break the skin, but he seems to get the message as his neck detaches itself from the fleshy construct. I move the rest of my fingers aroung his neck and haul him out through the hole like a newborn babe, except most newborn babes aren’t held up by their throat. I raise him up into the red lights of the club, taking in his sopping clothes now drenched in amniotic fluid, and lift my tendrils out of the floor once Faultline widens the gaps. I take a moment to bask in my victory, before hearing an unfamiliar voice at my back.  
  
“Put Michael down, or I’ll cut this bitch's throat and let her bleed out.”  
  
I turn, slowly so as not to spook the speaker, and see Spitfire shaking in terror, a generic-looking woman with a knife to her throat.  
  
Deep Throat.  
  
Of course, we fucking forgot about the fucking Stranger. It’s in the fucking name. She’s desperate though; she’s the last Company woman left standing and we have her surrounded. Faultline moves just a little, and she flinches.  
  
“Think about this for a second. Think about what you’re doing.”  
  
She’s twitching from side to side, trying to keep us all in sight. I don’t let go of Teamster.  
  
“It’s over, understand? Your team’s down, and this isn’t going to help them.”  
  
Her hand’s clutching at the knife; she’s on edge and she isn’t going to back down. She’s afraid, and that fear will drive her to do anything to escape. I flick out a tendril behind me, knocking over a chair. She jumps at the noise, and her grip on the knife loosens just a fraction. I send a tendril shooting forwards and blood sprays over Spitfire.  
  
For a moment, I hold her there before pulling the jagged blade of bone out of her skull. She falls to the floor with a wet slap, and there’s the briefest moment of silence.  
  
Then Spitfire screams.


	26. Expedition: 4.04

There’s none of the celebrations I saw after the last few jobs. After Philadelphia and Boston we were all scrambling around high on our own success. I felt a little like that at first, but the mood of the others has brought me down a lot. Maybe it’s because we need to put on a professional front for the prisoners. They’re sitting on the floor of the van, sandwiched in between myself and the rest of the crew. They’re a sorry looking bunch, all slumped heads and hollow eyes. I guess the defeat is finally settling in. Their eyes keep darting down to look past me at the carcass beside the van’s doors. I keep my eyes fixed on them, the better to act if they decide to try anything stupid.  
  
Ahead of me, Faultline pulls the van up in front of a warehouse out on the edge of Fremont. There’s a ‘For Lease’ banner hanging from it, so it seems empty at least. We wait in the van as Faultline steps up to the main doors, cutting through a padlock and chain with the slightest of touches. Gregor gets out to haul the doors open and shut while Faultline drives us in. Once we’ve stopped in the darkened room, the captives are hauled to their feet and forced out of the van’s door. I go to follow them, but Faultline stops me with a raised hand. She’s holding a shovel, and she passes it to me while gesturing to the back of the van.  
  
“I need you to go and bury the body. Head into the woods behind the warehouse. Bury her deep.”  
  
I nod to her, and take the shovel in one hand while slinging the carcass over my shoulder. There’re a few flecks of blood and gore left on the floor of the van, but I can see Faultline filling a bucket of water at a rusty faucet so I assume she’s got it. The captives look at me as I leave, probably still wary of me from the fight, while the crew keeps their eyes firmly on our prisoners. All except for Spitfire, who shoots me a fleeting glance. I smile at her, but she just turns away.  
  
It’s almost pitch black outside now, and I can only make out the woods by the silhouette of the trees against the night sky. Low light vision was never a priority for Khanivore, but I manage to make my way through the forest by the faintest glimmers of moonlight that happen to peek through the canopy. The forest isn’t far from our adopted warehouse, but I make sure to get a good few hundred meters away before starting. The grounds hard, but I can put a lot of strength behind the shovel, even if it is a little small for my hands. I dropped the carcass against the ground beside me, and pay it no mind as I work.  
  
It’s not in the best state. Rigor mortis is beginning to set in, and there’s a hole running from the back of the skull to the front. I think we might have left some pieces of face behind in the club. Hopefully they aren’t large enough to identify. It’s the same death I gave Jessica; a single blade to the back of the head.  
  
Turns out that digging a pit takes longer than you think. Fortunately, it doesn’t have to be that long. Just long enough to drop the carcass in, curled up in a ball to save space. What it does have to be is deep. Can’t risk anyone stumbling across it. Once the shovel becomes too unwieldy and snaps, I switch to my claws. I shovel aside the earth and snap any root that gets in my way. In the end, I’m left with a pit around two meters deep, and I kick the carcass into the bottom.  
  
Filling it back up is a lot easier. There’re no roots or stones to worry about; I just have to push the pile of dirt back into the pit. When I’m done, there’s a patch of bare earth, but nothing else. I take a moment to stretch myself out, standing on my work and looking up at the moon through the forest canopy. This far from the roads and any other unnatural light, I can see the stars spread out across the night sky. Eventually I tear myself away from the sight and head back, leaving the broken shovel buried with the carcass in the pit.  
  
Not much seems to have changed by the time I get back, but the captives have all been zip tied to different parts of the warehouse, far apart from each other. Pinkerton’s missing, probably isolated as the leader. Before I can step through the main door, Faultline intercepts me. She directs me back outside with a silent gesture, and then leads me a little way from the warehouse, underneath the shelter of an old garage.  
  
“Sonnie. We need to talk.”  
  
I lower myself onto my haunches, putting me at eye level with her mask. I can’t make out anything in the dark of the shed, save for the thin strip of reinforced glass that lets her see.  
  
“You killed someone back there.”  
  
I’m a little confused, and I know it shows on my face. That bitch was going to gut Emily; she’s better off dead. Faultline sees my confusion, and speaks again.  
  
“I’m not going to tell you it was the wrong thing to do, she probably wasn’t going to back down, but it wasn’t the smart thing to do.”  
  
Faultline pauses to let her words sink in, but I still don’t understand.  
  
“The average lifespan of an independent cape is six months. That’s six months, before they end up dead in an alley somewhere. Myself, Gregor and Newter have been in this business for a year now, and I’ve been active as a cape for three.”  
  
“We’ve beaten the odds, because we’re smart about it. We don’t go out to kill, and that keeps the PRT off our back and doesn’t leave us with a trail of enemies at our back. Most capes aren’t that clever. They go out and they fight, and a lot of them kill. They all die in the end; they get shot dead by a panicked civilian, or they kill some gang members and get offed in retaliation or they shoot at the PRT and get cut down in a hail of bullets.”  
  
She lifts her welding mask up, letting me see her reproachful eyes.  
  
“I told you about the Unwritten Rules, and why it’s important to follow them. Why I need you to follow them.”  
  
But she broke the rules as well! She was going to kill Emily!  
  
“You’re right, she was going to kill Spitfire,” Faultline understands immediately, “but that doesn’t mean you’re the only person who can solve that problem. You’re not fighting alone anymore; you have teammates who are willing and able to help you. That distraction with the chair was a stroke of brilliance, but Newter was at her side milliseconds after you. He could have taken her down easily, if only you’d thought about it.”  
  
Fuck. She’s right. I’ve seen that malchick zip around the place like a bloody hummingbird. Immediately, my mind flashes back to the scraps of skin on the floor of the club, the burst eyeballs and sprays of viscera. I killed someone. Not a geneered beast piloted by remote, or a couple of pricks who tried to kill me. Sure, she was attacking our own but our own can deal with that.  
  
“I’m glad you understand. You should know that the others are a little scared of you now, and Spitfire’s downright terrified.”  
  
That’s a hammer blow to my heart. I can’t even bear to look Melanie in the eye now. I just sink to the floor with my head in my hands.  
  
“Sonnie. You and Gregor are the only other adults in our group, and I need you two to set the standard for the others to follow. You need to stop this because, if I have to chose between your safety and the safety of the group, I will choose the group every time.”  
  
That’s fair, more than I deserve even. You’ve been so kind to me, and this is how I repay you?  
  
“Now, are you going to stop moping about like a child? You don’t get to wallow about in self-pity. Not now, not ever.”  
  
I shuffle my head, shaking away tears that I’m incapable of having, and clamber up to my feet. Faultline just nods, sliding her mask back down over her face, and heads back into the building. I follow.  
  
I shadow Faultline as she moves into the warehouse’s offices, kept clean but empty in anticipation of new tenants. We find Pinkerton chained to a wall; his wrists suspended above him by a pipe. He looks a little beat up from where Newter slammed his head against the floor, but he still manages to give us a vicious glare. More me than Faultline, which makes sense. He’s still a little out of sorts from Netwer’s drugs, or he was given a fresh dose when I was out, and Faultline has to snap her fingers in front of him to get his attention.  
  
“Pinkerton. We need to talk.”  
  
Pinkerton looks up at us, his exposed face and curly black hair contrasting with Faultline’s concealed features. It’s amazing, how much more vulnerable a Cape looks without a mask.  
  
“What the fuck even is this, you bitch? You hit us in our civvies, and you kill Jeanette?”  
  
Faultline takes a chair from behind a bare desk and sets it down in front of the captive, sitting backwards with her arms folded atop the backrest.  
  
“Perhaps you should have thought of that before crossing Toybox and carrying a nuclear reactor across three state lines.”  
  
He’s about to snark out some response, but Faultline just nods at me. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what she wants and, one gentle kick to the jaw later, we have a compliant prisoner.  
  
“Let me spell it out for you. You fucked up. You’ve been doing too much Thinking instead of thinking and it’s led you right here. You have two choices now. The first, is where you join poor Jeanette, was that her name, out in the woods. The second is that we hand you over to the PRT, and they throw the book at you. I’m sure some of your team will get off easy, they’re photogenic enough for the Wards or the Protectorate, and you’ll probably end up on a think tank after just a decade in jail.”  
  
He laughed at that, through bloody teeth and a swollen jaw.  
  
“You bitch. You really expect me to believe you’ve got contacts in the Protectorate? Look at you! You’ve got me tied up in a filthy fucking warehouse, with your pet fucking murderbeast!”  
  
Another nod, and a backhanded slap this time. Just a little love tap, all things considered. He almost manages to dodge out the way, probably his bullshit power at work.  
  
“You still don’t understand. This is Toybox we’re talking about. The PRT relies on them much more than they’d like to admit. Who exactly do you think put up the walls around Ellisburg or Madison or however many other cities? They hired us to get you, and they asked the PRT to keep you. All we need, is the location of the reactor and the name of whoever hired you.”  
  
He moved his mouth to talk, and I raised a closed fist, but instead he just flinched.  
  
“Having a little headache?” Faultline’s tone was absolutely dripping with sarcasm.  
  
“You really need to stop overthinking things. You were really going all out against Newter, weren’t you? Must have been pushing your power to the limit. And now, every time Khanivore does so much as flinch, I’ll bet attack patterns are running through your head. You’re pushing yourself to far, or perhaps you can’t turn it off anymore. Either way, you know as well as I do, the longer this goes on, the worse it’ll get.”  
  
I grin, baring my teeth, and start to move around the bound man. I move six independent limbs around, lining up each for blows but never fully committing to them. I can see him flinching more and more now, and he’s making a deliberate effort to ignore me. It doesn’t look like it’s working.  
  
“Of course,” Faultline continues, sounding like someone discussing the weather rather than torturing a geezer, “if you aren’t willing to talk, I’m sure others in your team will. Buckshot, perhaps; she’d probably do anything for the faintest chance to see poor Elizabeth again.”  
  
The Thinker looks down at his feet, and I stop my attacks. He looks beaten now, whatever pride and vanity he got from being the smartest git in the room has left him now,  
  
“Fine. I agree.”  
  
He tells us the address, explaining that they’d set up for the night in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. I guess all capes think alike in that regard. What Faultline, and more importantly our client, was really interested in was whoever had hired him.  
  
“He calls himself Doctor Detroit. Some nut up north who wants to build a robot army and conquer the state. You know, the usual Tinker shit. The reactor was supposed to go to this self-replicating robot factory or something. I didn’t get paid to ask questions.”  
  
“No,” Faultline replies in agreement, “that wouldn’t be proper.”  
  
We leave him chained up there, wanting to verify the information before doing anything stupid. The rest of the crew are still on the warehouse floor, watching over the other members of the Steel Company. Faultline waves over the Crew, gathering us around the van. The uneasy looks Spitfire is flashing me, and a couple from Newter of all people, make a lot more sense now, and I can’t help but feel a little guilty.  
  
“Pinkerton talked. Get the prisoners back into the van. Spitfire, you and Khanivore are going four doors down. We’ve been on the same block as their hideout the whole time. Bound to happen, in a town as small as this. You’re looking for a metal briefcase that’s heavier than it should be.”  
  
Spitfire looks up at me, fear evident even through the gas mask, and I look at Faultline in confusion, but she’s already moved on. Spitfire shivers a little, and makes her way out. I follow beside her, torn between hiding from her and letting her keep me in sight. The Steel Company’s warehouse might have been the mirror image of our own, right down to the ‘For Lease’ banner above the door. We make our way up to one of the side entrances, and I force the door off its hinges before leaning it against the wall.  
  
We find their camp in the old offices, raised off the factory floor on a metal scaffold and kept free of any exterior windows. Five sleeping bags, for the five members of the Company. Their costumes are here as well, for those of them who wore costumes. It seems that dress shirts and vests were the norm, with a single bowler hat that I assumed must belong to Pinkerton. Emily’s looking over their belongings, before pausing over what looks like a set of workman’s clothes, but cut for a woman. Deep Throat’s outfit.  
  
“I’m scared of you.”  
  
The words come out of nowhere, breaking the heavy silence that had sat between us. I can’t respond to her, not without carving up the walls, but I’ve learned to be a good listener.  
  
“I know you saved my life back there, and I know you did it to protect me, but you killed someone right in front of me. I barely managed to hold myself together until we’d got the others tied up.”  
  
She slumps against the wall, looking down at a dead woman’s sleeping bag.  
  
“I had to leave after that. I found a toilet and I just threw up into it. Didn’t even take off my mask. Then I caught sight of myself in the mirror, and I saw the blood on my clothes. I threw up again. It took me ages to wash the blood off, and I don’t think I got it all.”  
  
What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I move over to the other side of the room and sit myself down, propping my back against the wall and looking right at her.  
  
“I know I shouldn’t be scared. You’ve been so nice to me, everyone has.”  
  
I shake my head. I don’t care if it makes you hate me, but you have every right to be scared. I fucked up. She just sighs, and brushes aside one of the sleeping bags to reveal a grey metal case.  
  
“Think this is it?”  
  
I nod, and lever myself back up. Slowly, so as not to spook her. Emily starts to make her way back down, but she’s obviously struggling with the weight of the case. I reach out a hand in a wordless offer, and she holds out her left arm. She flinches a little as my immense hands brush over hers, but nothing more. I’m carrying the case now, the portable reactor that set this whole mess off.  
  
When we return, Faultline and the others have got the Steel Company secured in the back of the van. Faultline gives us a brief nod when she sees the two of us walking side by side, and we mount up without exchanging words. The van is silent when we pull out of the warehouse, but it’s not the same silence as before. It’s a little less harsh now. Things aren’t fixed, far from it, but they’re a little better than they were before.


	27. Expedition: 4.05

It took us hours to get here, through Indiana and Illinois. Hours spent cooped up in the van, the small space made all the smaller by the four captives zip tied to their seats. They were all silent, no doubt thinking about what the future has in store for them, but so were the rest of us. We can’t exactly fill the time with idle chatter, not with the prisoners in the van, and I think the others are still a little nervous around me. I try to give them as much space as I can, curling myself up at the back of the van and minimizing my movement.  
  
Night has properly fallen now, and the only light comes from the occasional orange flashes of streetlamps as we speed down the roads; regular bursts of light that illuminate a tired collection of people, dressed in scorched and battered clothing. It also illuminates our captives; Pinkerton, looking lost and forlorn as he struggles with headaches, Buckshot, still nursing a wounded hand wrapped in bandages, Agent Orange, kept unconscious by Newter in case he decides to gas us, and Teamster, with neck coated in adhesive to stop his power from growing. It wouldn’t hold if he tried, but it would delay him long enough for me to put a blade to his throat.  
  
We’re heading West, across a couple of state lines, to rendezvous with whatever PRT goons Toybox managed to strongarm into picking up the scum. Of course, the PRT can’t meet with a crew of hardened bruisers out in public; we’d make them look bad. That’s why we’re pulling off the main roads and out into open country, which America has a lot of. There’s so much space here. I’ll bet you get people who just fuck off to the woods and live off the land hunting wild animals and making their own drugs. Try that in the UK and you’d have fucking ramblers traipsing through your living room, and the council riding up your arse because you didn’t get planning permission for your log cabin.  
  
There’s the meeting place now, one of dozens of laybys tucked against a country road, with only the occasional lorry passing by. Our hosts haven’t arrived yet, so we pull up and wait for a while as out human cargo gets increasingly antsy. They’re probably right to be worried; if we were going to take them out into the woods and bury them, this would be the place to do it.  
  
“The fuck’s taking them so long? Chicago’s not that far away.”  
  
The prisoner’s being a little bitch again. Who’d think a Thinker would be so paranoid? I raise my hand to give him a good slap only to drop it when Faultline actually answers him.  
  
“You’re not going to Chicago. A different department’s picking you up.”  
  
“Fucking who?”  
  
“Department C7.”  
  
Their reactions are a little odd. Didn’t they want to go into custody? Why are they flipping out now, of all times? As before, Pinkerton’s the one running his mouth the most.  
  
“What the fuck is this, hey? What, you couldn’t be bothered to kill us so you figured you’d just quarantine us instead?”  
  
“Calm down. They’re just handling the pickup. Besides, it’s not like you’d have much of a choice either way.”  
  
There’s a little grumbling after that, but Pinkerton settles down with grudging acceptance. At the appointed hour, whenever that is, Faultline exits the van and gestures for the rest of us to follow. She leaves the engine running, and the twin headlights make silhouettes out of us as we fan out behind Faultline, the prisoners lined up on their knees in front of us.  
  
The biting cold is nipping at my heels, and I begin to question my decision to run about the north wearing only a wink and a prayer. Maybe I should get that massive trench coat made, pride and dignity be damned. No, somehow the image just doesn’t work in my mind. Besides, I’m fucking proud of this body, and people deserve to see it. A trench coat would be like putting a dirty tarp over the Mona-fucking-Lisa. I stand a little straighter at that, in spite of the cold.  
  
Flickers of light start to appear in the distance, split by the trees and moving ever forwards. As the lights draw closer, I start to hear the rumbling of tires on asphalt and the light begins to highlight the silhouettes of several boxy vehicles. When they’re close enough to distinguish color, I start to feel a little uneasy. There are four cars and two vans, but they don’t look like the vehicles I’ve seen so far. Instead of the long police cars, these are a lot boxier and look like they’re built to go off-road. They might have ‘PRT’ stenciled on the side, but they’re painted green rather than grey,  
  
The four cars spread out around the layby, almost, but not quite, encircling us. The two vans, definitely normal PRT vans, stop in front of us. Then the doors of the armoured cars open up, and soldiers burst out. That’s obviously who they are, no matter what the ‘PRT’ on their shoulders might say. For starters, they aren't dressed like the PRT millicents I’ve seen before; all chainmail and armour that might stop you taking a beating, but won’t help you hike fifty miles across a warzone. These guys are camouflaged, and dressed in fairly tame plate carriers and helmets. Then there is the way they move, hunched low to the ground to minimize the exposure. Finally, there are the guns; not a single non-lethal weapon on them.  
  
They aren’t exactly pointing them at us, but none of them look particularly friendly. One of them, probably the officer, steps over to the actual PRT vans as a pair of capes and a team of PRT bruiseboys get out. The two capes are both giants of men, one a black guy in a grey and red suit of armour and a helmet that exposes the sharpest jawline I’d ever seen. Guy looks like he just stepped off a movie poster. The second guy’s a little shorter, but that’s like saying the Antwerp Space Elevator’s shorter than the one in Carlisle. He’s Asian, and wearing some kind of Japanese dressing gown that exposes arms covered in ornate tattoos. He’s got a fucking sword on his belt.  
  
The armored bastard takes the lead, the ninja and the millicents fanning out behind him just like we’re behind Faultline. His jaw’s set in a scowl as he paces towards us. Then, something happens. His scowling face falters in confusion for a moment, before twisting into a broad smile that exposes a row of pearly whites.  
  
“Faultline! Nobody told me you were handling the drop off.”  
  
The boss looks a little confused for a second, her head tilting just a little to the side. Then she starts, crying out in a voice that was about as far from professional as you could get.  
  
“Fucking hell, Barabbas. I hardly recognized you!”  
  
Her stance is easy, relaxed even, in spite of the guns and cops and soldiers, and the line of prisoners in front of her. I remember enough of the Predators to recognize someone greeting an old friend. An old friend, or something more?  
  
“Yeah, I got a haircut.” He runs his gloved hand over a helmeted head. “It’s been what, two years? Two years since Norfolk?”  
  
“Two years since you skipped out on me, you mean?”  
  
The cape, whose relationship to Faultline is getting clearer by the second, cries out in mock exasperation.  
  
“I didn’t skip out on you, I got arrested by the coastguard in the Elizabeth River with a ship full of cocaine and ten Narco goons.”  
  
Faultline scoffs. She actually bloody scoffs.  
  
“Like that’s an excuse. Still, you seem to have done well enough out of it. New suit and everything.”  
  
The grunt works his hands over his armor, caressing the plates of ceramic red material.  
  
“Pretty hot, right? Ratted out a few Narco supply routes in exchange for a suspended sentence and Protectorate job that never brings me south of Virginia. Kept your name out it as well, in honor of our many, many, nights of passion.”  
  
Faultline shakes her head, her hands on her hips.  
  
“You haven’t changed, have you? Well I’m afraid you’ve missed your chance; I’m just not interested in dating a boy scout.”  
  
“Oh, that doesn’t bother me at all, babe. Everyone knows that Good has the hotter chicks.”  
  
“Real choir girl types, I’m sure. Have they let you fuck them yet, or are they ‘saving themselves for marriage?’”  
  
The air quotes were probably a little excessive. It seems sword guy agrees, if I’m judging his pointed cough correctly. Barabbas turns back for a second, and tightens up his posture a little.  
  
“Right, right. Professional. We’re professionals.”  
  
He looks over the four captives, beaten, bruised and unmasked, and waves forwards the PRT troopers. We let them through, once Faultline nods her consent, and they cart away the Steel Company, locking them in the back of one of the vans.  
  
“Hey, Faultline? We were told there were five prisoners for pickup.”  
  
Ah. There it is.  
  
“There were… complications.”  
  
That’s one way of putting it. For a moment, my mind flashes with an image of the soldiers gunning me down for fucking with their stupid kid rules, and I tense up, ready for a fight.  
  
“Shit happens. I get it.”  
  
Part of me is a little disappointed. Like it shouldn’t be this easy. I fucked up; doesn’t something need to happen?  
  
I push the self-pity down. It’s neither practical nor useful, and it won’t help mend my bond with the group. Instead, I raise myself up a little so that I can keep all the soldiers in sight; it wouldn’t do to be caught out while Faultline catches up with an old flame.  
  
“So, how’s Madison treating you, Barabbas?”  
  
“It’s Red Glare now. Turns out you can’t keep your villain name in the Protectorate. Madison’s not been nearly as bad as you’re probably thinking. Sure, it’s not glamorous, but it is important. I’m actually running the team, if you can believe it. We’ve a lot of military guys around, and I was a jarhead before I was a cape, so I’m used to it.”  
  
Faultline looks around, taking in the platoon of armed soldiers.  
  
“Yes, I was wondering about them.”  
  
“Would you believe they’re PRT agents?”  
  
The cocky grin on his face made this a question that didn’t need answering.  
  
“Madison’s a big place, and the PRT doesn’t have the manpower to watch it all. But you can’t have the army shooting at US citizens on US soil, so the powers that be decided to compromise. Director Tagg’s got a whole brigade under him, every one of them temporarily made a PRT agent and put in our chain of command. We’re basically an army unit with a PRT sticker on top.”  
  
In the distance, I see Agent Orange’s unconscious body carried into the PRT van by two troopers, before it’s locked up.  
  
“The team’s alright. Lot of people like me who are good, but don’t quite fit in with the PR. Take Saisentan back there; his power basically sharpens the edge of any blade he carries to bullshit levels. Not exactly PR friendly, and he was a Yakuza hitman before seeking asylum after Kyushu, but he’s loyal and damn good in a fight. The only problem I have are the fucking Wards.”  
  
“That bad?”  
  
“Worse. We’ve got no use for Wards here; Youth Guard would throw a fit if we let them within half a mile of the exclusion zone, but every Protectorate team has to have a Wards team as well. We’ve also got the most psychologists on staff, for obvious reasons, so every Director with a real bastard on their team decides to send the little shits to us. I fucking hate every last one of them.”  
  
Faultline starts to laugh at him, and soon he’s joining in. They don’t repair whatever romance they once had, but they part on friendly terms. The soldiers and millicents get back into their trucks, and turn back onto the highway. We watch the parade of red tail lights while waiting for our next contact. It doesn’t take long, and they don’t exactly sneak up on us.  
  
A great roaring sound travels along the forest canopy, and I can see the silhouettes of distant trees shaking under some tremendous wind. There’s an aircraft, off in the distance, only visibly by the red and green lights on the tips of its wings. As it draws closer, I start to make out a plain grey hull and the faint glow of electric lights in the cockpit. It approaches at an immense speed, only slowing when it’s right on top of us. Its four jets turn on their axis until they’re pointing directly at the ground, buffeting us with their force as the aircraft comes in for a landing. Four sets of wheels emerge from the fuselage, and the ramp at the rear of the aircraft drops to the earth.  
  
All I can see inside the aircraft are the soles of an immense pair of metal feet. The feet roll out of the aircraft, followed by a body at least twenty feet long. Somehow, this enormous suit of armor levers itself upright, until the five of us are facing down a behemoth of metal and steel, done up in blue and white. Spitfire and Newter flinch back, but the rest of us stand our ground. Faultline just tilts her neck up, and speaks to the machine with all the calm professionalism I have come to expect from her.  
  
“Toy Soldier. The job’s done.”  
  
“Yep. Not as clean as we’d like, but you got most of them.”  
  
The voice, despite being broadcast through immense speakers, sounds much younger than it has any right to be. Figures a group called Toybox would have its fair share of kids.  
  
“The money’s going to your account with The Number Man, and Cranial will meet you at Palanquin tomorrow evening. She’s even agreed to offer you a discount.”  
  
Faultline nodded, acknowledging the end of our deal.  
  
“So what happens to Doctor Detroit? We’re available, if you want professionals to handle it.”  
  
The immense suit of armor giggled at us. It fucking giggled. I narrow my eyes, trying to see through the thick armor plating to the schoolgirl I am sure is piloting it.  
  
“Nah, Doctor Detroit is well out of our league now. Nobody wants another Eagleton, so he’s getting a visit tonight. Dragon is already airborne with a joint Protectorate/Guild strike team and Legend is taking off in ten minutes. They’re going to smack him silly, and I’m going with them. If the tech hadn’t been stolen, then a Toybox reactor would currently be powering an S-Class threat, so we’re putting on a show of remorse.”  
  
“Very well. Then I assume we’re done?”  
  
Another giggle. It’s incredible how mangled the speakers make that sound.  
  
“Yep. Seeya!”  
  
The twenty-foot-tall power suit sunk down onto its back, driving into the hold of the aircraft. The great engines cycled up again, far faster than they should have been able to, and the aircraft took off into the night sky, disappearing into the distance.  
  
We all let out a relieved breath at that, glad to have gotten the job over and done with. I’m more relieved than anyone. Hopefully things can start getting back to normal now.  
  
Newter steps out to look at the rapidly retreating red and green lights of the aircraft, then he brings his hand up to his chin.  
  
“That was the aircraft we came in on, right?”  
  
Faultline freezes for a moment before replying.  
  
“Yeah…”  
  
“So… How are we getting back?”  
  
We all turn on our heels to look at our beat-up transit van, with its hard seats and harder floors. Gregor sighs.  
  
“We’ll need to stop for gas.”


	28. Expedition: 4.06

There’s a light shining in my eyes. A little ball of white fire right above my head, right at the very center of my field of view. It’s irritating; a constant glow that I can still see through closed eyelids, a low heat playing across my face. I could get rid of the light, sure. I could turn my head a few centimeters in any direction, or roll myself onto my side, or send out a spiked tendril to shatter the bulb. I could do all these things, but I can’t move.  
  
Okay, that’s a bit melodramatic. I probably can move, if I want to, but I’m just too damn comfy to try. I’m lost in a sea of feathers and springs and silky-smooth satin. The mere idea of moving my joints causes them to ache, and the idea of shifting even one of the dozens of pillows is just too much to bear. Compared to that potential agony, I can bear the discomfort of a single lightbulb.  
  
Sixteen hours. Sixteen fucking hours on the road. Sixteen fucking hours spent lying on the floor of a fucking minibus, just counting minutes. I even managed to get bored of forests. The others got to stretch their legs when we stopped off at gas stations, but not poor Sonnie. Even fucking Newter got to go for a walk, once he decided that getting out of the van was worth putting a bloody top on. What kind of fucking country even has sixteen hours of roads? It’s inhuman. It’s downright fucking barbaric.  
  
But it’s over now, and we arrived back at the Palanquin just in time for the evening rush. I can hear the music now, the mezzanine floor doesn’t have the best soundproofing, a pounding electro-beat mixed in with the buzz of conversations and the faint sounds of glass. It’s a little retro, for me at least. Normally this floor would be full as well; a modern-day opium den filled with whatever girls the floor staff think Newter’ll find cute, but we’ve not let any up tonight. No doubt there are some disappointed devotchkas down with the masses below, but this floor is needed for Crew business tonight.  
  
I’m probably needed for Crew business as well, but I’m sure they can work around me. At least for a little while…  
  
Spitfire’s hidden herself away in her room. I think she’s still a little shocked by what happened, and I can’t honestly blame her for it. I just hope she doesn’t shut herself away over this. Elle’s with her, of course, but she’s in no state to help right now. If I’m lucky, then perhaps Elle will bring her back to us without needing to do anything. Spitfire likes to think of Elle as a younger sister, just like I think she was starting to think of me as an older one, so maybe having her there will remind her of why she joined us in the first place.  
  
Either way, there’s nothing much I can do except hope for the best.  
  
Newter, Gregor and Faultline are all sitting around one of the mezzanine’s many tables, furnished in tasteful leather that gives the area a more refined atmosphere than the neon wonder of the main floor. Netwer’s feigning disinterest as per usual, sprawled out on a sofa like a housecat, but I’m used to seeing through his false face now. He cares, more than he likes to admit, and he’s nervous about today. Gregor’s the real prize. He’s so stoic, normally. He’s hard to read, but in a natural way. It’s like he’s gotten so used to guarding his emotions that it’s become a natural process. It makes the slight furrowing of his brow, and the faintest hints of worry in his eyes, that much more noticeable.  
  
Faultline’s a rock, as per usual, though it’s probably easy to hide your emotions behind a full-face welding mask. She’s the one who set this up, part of our ongoing contribution to the mystery that is our existence.  
  
It’s funny. This symbol on my chest. It’s a tattoo of sorts, just a simple dye applied to my exoskeleton, and yet I find I can feel it always. It’s not constant, but whenever I start to feel good about this place, about the crew, about anything on this fucked up planet, I feel the brand they put on me. This mark they used to claim me as their fucking property, to take credit for the work of my fucking friends.  
  
I’m not a fool, and I’m not the dumb Brute people assume me to be. I know what this is; a psychosomatic response. I hate the brand, hate what it represents, and so I feel that hate burning itself into my exoskeleton. Cranial might be the key to finding the bastards who did this to me, who fucked with Gregor and Newter and that prick in Boston and who knows how many others.  
  
But I can’t let myself get my hopes up. I am, after all, not a fool. The others have been trying this for months. I know Faultline’s managed to build up an intelligence network of private investigators across the country, tracking down any rumor they can. Cranial is just one solution amongst many.  
  
Ah. Speak of the devil, and all that.  
  
The bouncer, some buff bloke in a neatly pressed suit, stepping up to Faultline’s table can only mean one thing. Our guest has arrived, no doubt idling on the club floor. One of these days, I’ll ask Faultline why she has us in such a public location. It’s not exactly common knowledge that we’re based out of Palanquin, but it’s not a well-kept secret either. I suspect it’s got something to do with the great game of cat and mouse I’m now a part of; we’re less of a threat to the local PRT if they know where we are when we’re in the city.  
  
A few quiet words are exchanged with the bouncer, and he disappears back down the stairs, seeking out our wayward Tinker. When he returns, I stare out of the corner of my eye at our new arrival. She’s a lot less overt than the other tinkers in toybox, but then I suppose she’s not really a front-line combatant. From what Faultline told us, she mainly works with memory. She’ll pay some Spetsnaz motherfucker a hundred thousand for a brain scan, then copy the memories from his brain like files from a computer. She’ll sell these memories to organizations that need some tough-as-nails bastards to do their dirty work. Special Forces mostly, for military or paramilitary groups.  
  
Point is, she’s not a bruiser like Toy Soldier or even Pyrotechnical. Instead, she’s dressed in very tight-fitting jeans and a low-cut burgundy t-shirt that hugs her curves and exposes coffee colored skin. Her weird half-jacket thing isn’t a normal look by any standards, and the strange pseudoplastic glove on her right hand practically screams parahuman. She’s not wearing a mask, I guess she doesn’t need to, and her face is made up like a professional model. She’s a little like Jessica in that regard, somebody using their appearance to open doors into high society. No doubt she’d be just as comfortable in a ballgown or smart suit, but we’re not really that sort of company.  
  
Faultline stands as she enters, but our Case-53s don’t. The two shake hands, and Cranial takes a seat at the round table, cocking her leg before graciously accepting the offer of a drink from one of the staff. She orders some small fruity cocktail, and waits for the staff to leave before getting down to brass tacks.  
  
“Cranial,” Faultline begins, her own drink untouched in front of her, “thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice.”  
  
“Think nothing of it. You saved us from a rather political problem.”  
  
Her accent’s a little French, which takes me a bit by surprise. Aren’t there French people in Canada? I guess we’re close enough to the border, and Toybox don’t strike me as being confined by something so mundane as geography.  
  
“Simply doing what you paid for. Tell me, are you aware of the situation with the Case-53s?”  
  
A wry grin appears on Cranial’s face, and her eyes dart momentarily between Gregor, Newter and myself.  
  
“Parahumans with obvious mutations, who appear randomly and with amnesia. The popular theory is that they are the result of trigger events gone wrong. Or, worse than usual.”  
  
If Gregor and Newter take issue with her clinical assessment of their situation, they don’t show it. Faultline, on the other hand, steeples her hands and leans forwards a smidgeon.  
  
“The popular theories are wrong. The Case-53s were created by some unknown organization. This organization saw fit to mark their creations with a brand. Newter?”  
  
The malchick, demonstrating his usual phobia of tops, raps his knuckles against his left bicep, where a stylized U has been tattooed in black ink. On the opposite side of Faultline, Gregor pulls down his jacket to reveal an identical tattoo on his right bicep. As usual, he’s not wearing a shirt under the jacket. Just my luck to end up in the one team where the men wear less than the women. Not that I’ve got any grounds to stand on in the fight against nudism.  
  
“Let me guess,” Cranial smiles to herself, though I can’t tell if its fake or genuine, “you want me to root around in their heads and see if there’s anything that can be recovered about the shadowy puppet masters.”  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
Cranial leans back on her seat, her arms resting on the back of the chair and her head looking up at the ceiling lights. Some small part of me notes how the move does pleasing things to her anatomy. She waits there for a moment, her eyes closed and her brown hair falling back behind her head, before suddenly rolling back upright.  
  
“Very well.” She brings her gloved right arm up in front of her face. “I think I’ll need something a little more powerful for this.”  
  
That confirms my suspicions that the glove is some sort of bullshit Tinkertech. Probably reads memories with a touch, and stores them inside either the glove itself, or some wetware. Fucking bullshit tech. Might as well just give up and call it magic if you’re going to keep pulling shit like this.  
  
“I have some equipment in my car, though I must warn you there’s a chance this may not work. If your brains are too inhuman, then I may not be able to read them at all. Your mutations don’t seem that drastic, but,” she looks over to me, “I doubt my equipment would work on him.”  
  
Fuck off. What, just because I’m a twelve-foot-tall, nude, octopus beast everyone suddenly assumes I’m a guy?  
  
“Khanivore is a special case. She won’t be having a scan, but I was wondering if you could attempt another procedure. She’s mute, and if you can get a read on her thoughts then you may be able to give her a voice.”  
  
Cranial spends another few moments in quiet thought, and I try to still the furious beating of my heart. Faultline mentioned this as a possibility, but I’m not sure if I want to have hope, only to see it taken away. Better to be a surprised pessimist. Of course, that was a lot easier before a solution to this body’s major drawback was dangled before my fucking face.  
  
“It might be possible, but I’ll need some equipment. I have several components in my car, but nothing capable of playing audio. It’s not something I ever expected to do, so if you could send someone to purchase a speaker or radio?”  
  
Faultline nods, and turns to Newter, taking a couple of green bills out of her pockets.  
  
“Find Spitfire, and ask her to head to the electronics store on Industry Way. Gregor, help Cranial with her equipment.”  
  
The room separates again, Newter heading up the stairs to look for Emily while Gregor leads Cranial down to the main floor. They’re a bit of an odd pair, a morbidly obese man and a finely honed statue of a woman. I don’t really know if Gregor ever feels self-conscious about his weight; he’s not really the sort of person who’d ever open up about that sort of thing. I’ve known him for a while now, and all I can say for sure about him is that he prides himself on self-sufficiency in spite of his mutations. That’s why he has that spotty kid to get his shopping, rather than asking Emily or Melanie to do it for him.  
  
I get where he’s coming from, but I’d have died on the estate without the team, and I guess I’ve gotten over my pride when it comes to accepting others help. Well, almost. Not at all, come to think of it.  
  
Gregor returns after a while, carrying a couple of plastic cases. I’m not sure why I was expecting carrier bags filled with bits of wire and scrap metal, but I can’t help but feel a little cheated.  
  
The cases contain two crown-like bands, made of the same black pseudoplastic as Cranial’s glove. There’s no computer to read them, which makes me think Cranial must be using her own brain as the processor. It’s not entirely a bad idea, if you’re mad., it just means that she’s probably stuck a few extra bioprocessors into her head, or into a separate carry case. Either way, it probably saves a bit of time.  
  
“These devices will read your minds.” Cranial sounds insufferably proud about that, though I suppose it’s not undeserved.  
  
“And they’re safe, right?”  
  
Newter’s nonchalance has finally failed him, it seems.  
  
“Of course. All it does is take a scan of your mind and change it into a state that I can manipulate. If memories from before your amnesia exist, then I will be able to find them with this device.”  
  
“Very well then,” Gregor rumbled. “Where do you want us?”  
  
“Somewhere comfortable will be fine. Sometimes clients have undergone spasms during the process, so it would be unwise to stand.”  
  
Gregor nods, moving to lie down on one of the rooms many long sofas. Newter does the same, and the two of them place the strange devices on their heads. They look more than a little silly, but it would be impolite to draw attention. Cranial stands in the middle of the room, looking at the back of her right wrist. No doubt that was where her bioprocessors projected the readouts from the two devices. Small clusters of diodes lit up on the crowns, some blinking, some steady. The brows of the two men furrow, and they seem to fall asleep. I pull myself up to my feet intrigued, ignoring my aching bones, as their eyes start to dart around behind their eyelids.  
  
Cranial herself seems deep in concentration, staring at her wrist with a fierce intensity. After a while, she sits herself cross legged on the floor, rests her hands on her knees and closes her eyes. Faultline and I stand over the trio, silent observers of this silent tableau. There’s no movement at all, from anybody in the room, and the silence only serves to build anticipation. Though Faultline’s face is hidden, her body lets off a thousand tiny clues that demonstrate her anticipation. She’s letting herself hope, leaning forward with the eagerness of a predator about to strike the killing blow.  
  
And then it stops. Cranial’s eyes open and she looks around in uncertainty for a few seconds. It reminds me of the moments hesitation I used to have when I took control of my old body. She was lost in her own head, and now she has to adjust to the real world. Gregor and Newter come to as well, Gregor slowly and hesitantly while Newter just rolls himself upright to perch on the sofa. Cranial levers herself to her feet, and meets four sets of eyes around the room.  
  
“I’m sorry. Something was there, but it had been so heavily scrambled as to render it unreadable.”  
  
And just like that, the tension falls away. Newter feigns disinterest, while Gregor’s head drops a few centimeters as his eyes find the floor. Faultline offers no reaction, but I can tell she’s disappointed.  
  
“Ah well,” she sighs, “it was a long shot. Thank you for confirming.”  
  
“I only wish I had better news for you.”  
  
Faultline shakes her head, as if to banish her emotions.  
  
“No matter. Now, regarding Khanivore.”  
  
“Very well. If you could sit back down, madam?”  
  
Don’t think I didn’t hear the unspoken question mark, you French tart. Gregor and Newter take their leave, I get the feeling they’re taking the bad news quite hard, and I lay back down onto my pillow pile. Faultline stays, for which I am grateful, and Cranial moves her gloved hand towards my head. Most of my brain is still in there, barring a few secondary bioprocessors that handle specific functions. The head isn’t as weak a target as everyone makes it out to be, and with Khanivore’s exoskeleton it’s actually the most armored place on my body.  
  
She flinches as her hand draws nearer, and then she backs off a little. She’s looking a little confused now.  
  
“You’re… broadcasting.”  
  
I flinch for just a moment, running through nightmare scenarios in my head before it finally clicks. Both Faultline and Cranial are a little taken aback by my low chuckle.  
  
“Do you know what she’s talking about?”  
  
Faultline’s looking down at me with a questioning gaze, but there’s not much I can do except nod my head and move my hand in a ‘talk to you later’ gesture. It’ll be fucking marvelous not to have to play charades anymore, if she can get it right.  
  
“Well, whatever it is it’s giving me access to your brain. It’s unlikely anyone without my tech would be able to do this, in case you were worried. It should make things a lot easier, however. Give me half an hour.”  
  
Half an hour. Half an hour spent in silence more painful than any of the weeks of silence I’ve endured until now. I can’t lie down anymore, and Faultline has to pull me into a chair when my pacing gets too bad. Wordlessly, she hands me a pint of something or other, and I force myself to nurse the drink until Cranial comes back. My eye flicks over to the small rectangle in her hand, barely twenty centimeters wide and one deep.  
  
“I believe this device should work. It should piggyback off your signal, and the area of the brain responsible for controlling speech. It just needs a second to attune.”  
  
That second stretches forever, and I spend an eternity with my eyes locked on that small scrap of blackened metal, until a white diode lights up the corner of the device. Cranial looks up at me; I’ve drawn myself up to my full height in anticipation.  
  
“It should work now. Try speaking.”  
  
Can you hear me?  
  
“Can you hear me?”  
  
Cranial steps back as if stunned. The voice is loud, as loud as the speaker was back in the trailer, when I taunted that twat Dicko over the corpse of his sugar baby. The voice has a strong East End accent, with a trace of brutality beneath it. The voice is mine.  
  
“The accent was a bit of a surprise.”  
  
Cranial’s joke falls on deaf ears, as I run through letters and syllables, hearing the words come through the small box in the Tinker’s hand. She holds it out to me.  
  
“The device will bond to your skin. It will set off metal detectors, but somehow I doubt it’ll be a problem.”  
  
I bring the box up, placing it on the left side of my throat, and feel small barbs drill their way into my skin. When I bring down my hand, the device stays in place. Some deviant part of me compares it to the machine Cricket used to talk, but I stamp the thought down.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
I say it to both Faultline and Cranial. The words have more meaning now than they ever did before, and I leave the two mercenaries to clamber my way up the stairs to the third floor. I pass along the tight wooden corridors, stopping in front of a plain white door. I push down the handle with a single claw, and stoop my head to fit through the entrance. Inside I see Elle leaning up against the bed, staring off into the middle distance. On the opposite side of the room, Emily is lying on her front atop her own bed. She’s distracted, listening to music while reading a book, but she rolls over to look at her guest, her eyes widening ever so slightly as she sees me.  
  
“I’m sorry.”


	29. Interlude: *******

The sea churns and whirls, mixing in with the driving sheets of rain. It feels fresh on my face, and fills me with the scent of saltwater. I can hear it too, a constant drumming against my waxed cloak that sets my blood to boiling. Before me stretches the endless expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, barely visibly through the storm as a field of mountains rising and falling, outlined by flecks of white sea-foam. This is my true homeland, more than Reykjavík, more than Iceland itself. This is where I belong.  
  
For a moment, I tear myself away from the furious sea, and look back. I am standing at the prow of a great frigate, atop a wooden deck kept clean by the labor of a hundred men. I stand atop the fore of this majestic vessel, before the great anchor chains and coiled reels of grapnel rope. Behind me rises the main gun, a great tube of greyed steel that opened at the end like the maw of Hel itself. The turret is festooned with wooden shields hung over the thick metal armor; spiritual protection to match the physical. A great tower rises up behind the teeth of our steel beast, with the subtle green glow of electrics illuminating the bridge.  
  
I can see figures in that lofty place, a trio of silhouettes deferring to a single man who seems to fix me with a stare that carries the weight of millennia past. I raise my own hand in defiance, and leave the railing to walk along the sides of the ship. There are people here now, more than would normally be on deck. Like me, they are men, and like me they are armed. I can feel the weight of the submachine gun bouncing on its sling against my toned chest. It is a simple thing, but easy to use in the close confines of a ship and I would rather have it by my side in place of any heavier weapon. It was forged by the weaponsmiths of Hannover, and it is one of the few possessions I actually bought from a foreigner.  
  
The hand axe that hangs from my belt was not bought. I carved its handle from fine oak and cored it with a bar of strengthened steel, so that it might never fail me. The head was forged from the same metal, and I myself carved the devotional runes into the weapon. It is a comfort to have, and a valuable tool to use. The other men stand as I pass, and I note their own axes likewise hung from their belts. They respect me, perhaps because of my father, and I understand that I need to earn their respect.  
  
I know every one of their names, and I call out to them as they prepare for war. They respond with good jokes and black humor; the camaraderie of warriors heading for battle. They wear no uniforms, for we are no Swedes in starched shirts, set to march to a drumbeat and denied the true freedom of warriors. We are the scourge of the seas, and all who hear of us know fear. They call us an ‘anachronism’, they swear to wrest us from our island home. Perhaps they will, in time, but it is better to burn bright and burn briefly.  
  
I see the name of the ship, besides a closed hatch, in golden letters on a metal plaque. The ‘Sigurd Orm-i-øje’, built in Ports Mouth for the Royal Danish Navy but stolen from their hands in a midnight raid. That was a day. Sailing up the Norman Channel in a score of motor vessels, scraping by the Coast Guard through luck alone, then descending on the town in a fury of blades and bullets, seizing five warships that went to the five chieftains who lead the raid. Now we turn their vessels against them, and take their technology for our own.  
  
I turn the wheel on the hatch, and the bulkhead door swings open. I climb the stairs, moving up to the bridge…  
  


<|°_°|>

  
“Vessel, eight kilometers, bearing two-seven-three. Dispersal suggests a Merchantman.”  
  
Above our heads, a great tower spins silently. Radar, the latest weapon in the Navy’s efforts to root us out, has now been turned to our cause. With it, we can cast aside this blasted storm and see our target as if it were as clear as day. I am standing at the back of the bridge, behind and to the left of the Captain’s chair. To my right, my father leans forward and strokes his greying beard with a hand.  
  
“Change course to intercept. Tell me at once if you spot another ship.”  
  
“Aye, Chieftain!”  
  
The mood in the bridge changes immediately, though none of us are weak enough to show it. It’s a subtle thing, a change in mood as we go from the mundane routine to the thrill of the hunt. Of course, we’ve been ready for a hunt since we left port.  
  
“My son.”  
  
I straighten up, an utterly unconscious reaction, and turn to meet my father’s gaze. Only one of his eyes has any color, the other having been lost to shrapnel, but that blue ring and jet-black pupil seems to hold all the authority in the world.  
  
“Yes, father.”  
  
There is no doubt in my mind as to what his next words will be, but I still cannot wait for him to give voice to them.  
  
“Prepare the boarding party.”  
  


<|°_°|>

  
All ahead full now. We’re moving through the waves like a battering ram, sliding over those we can and hammering through the rest with the prow of the ship. Great plumes of white water shoot into the air before us, dozens of meters high, before coming to crash down upon me and my men. I can feel every drop now; my waxed cloak stowed in my cabin with everything else that might catch on a loose scrap of metal.  
  
The sheer force of the cascading water is enough to knock some men from their feet, sending them sliding along the deck until their fall is broken by the ropes that run from their belts to the railings. Those who do fall are quick to get back up, either hauling themselves up with the railing or accepting help from the scores of men around them. The deck heaves with the mass of muscle and steel, but before me there is only empty wood.  
  
I am standing at the fore of the warband, right beside the main gun of our vessel. A flash of lighting suddenly crackles down from the sky, and I catch the sight of an immense cargo ship, easily five times our length. There’s a small flag flying at the end, a flash of green and white. Greenland, then. Besides me, I hear the whirr of hydraulics as the great gun elevates itself, shifting slightly as it lines up a shot. There’s an ear-splitting crack and a tongue of smokey flames as a shell shoots out of the gun. There is no impact, of course. No point in damaging the ship if a warning shot will do.  
  
There’s a pregnant pause as the bridge radios our demands to the prey, before the side of the cargo ship erupts in a series of flashes. The crack of gunfire follows the shells across the water, and I swear I can see the metal of a shell pass overhead. It’s a Q-Ship! A trap, baited with a tempting target. Beneath my feet, I feel the deck vibrate as the engines spin even faster. These disguised warships are hell at range, but if we can close fast enough then we might win the day!  
  
It takes the enemy two minutes to reload their guns and reacquire us. The flank of the immense vessel lights up again, but this time we’re not so lucky. We’re charging them head on, which makes us a smaller target, and so the shell that hits our starboard flank travels down the length of the vessel, scoring into the decks below and evaporating half my men into a pulpy red mist. The others, with me on the port side, grip tighter onto the railings and their weapons. Part of me thinks of turning back and shouting some words of encouragement, but they would neither help nor be heard over the storm.  
  
Our own cannon fires a second time, and I follow the trajectory of the shell even as I am almost deafened by the sound of the gun firing. It flies straight and true, and a cheer breaks out as it slams into the raised tower of the warship, setting a fire that cascades up the side. It’s not sunk, and these ships often have secondary bridges, but it’s a start.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
There’s a great shuddering of metal as our hull meets their own. The advance was bloody, and our ship is barely holding together, but we’ve made it with dozens of men to spare. These men grab the grapnels from the deck, and hurl the hooked ropes up to the deck of the taller vessel. The rest of our crew starts to pour out of the hatches; our ship is sunk and our only hope lies in taking theirs. I am the first to climb, as is only fitting. I haul myself up the netting raised between the grapnel lines, my feet on the horizontal and arms on the vertical just as we have been drilled.  
  
At the lip of the Q-Ship’s railing, I draw my submachinegun and roll myself over the metal, firing at the shadows as I go. There’s no-one here yet, but that can change in an instant. As the rest of the crew starts to climb, I risk the seconds needed to change over my magazine. The first of the warriors joins me, moving ahead to hold the chokepoints while I coordinate a response.  
  
All of a sudden, the Sigurd Orm-i-øje is consumed by a gargantuan blast that sends a ball of smoke and shrapnel up into the sky, tearing apart the men who still climb the ladders. They’re gone. The whole warband, my father, my friends. The magazine must have burst. I barely have time to consider the implications as I hear distant shouts and the first of the Greenlanders around the corner. I back away, firing with my submachine gun almost on reflex alone.  
  
It’s all gone. Everything.  
  
Rage fills me, and I let it consume my actions. I run through the warren of corridors and steel bulkheads, firing into every room I see until my bullets run dry. Then I use my axe, and I feel hot blood flowing across my face. All I have left, is to die a warrior’s death.  
  
The decks are dark, until I am suddenly blinded by an unnaturally white light. A doorway appears in front of me, of purest white framed with orange, and I am momentarily stunned until the light is blocked by two figures in armor more advanced than any I have ever seen. They drive the butt of a rifle into my chest, and I bend over, my axe clattering from my fingers. The second soldier sticks something in me, and I feel my limbs go limp as they drag me through their portal.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
I’m strapped to a gurney, underneath a light brighter than light has any right to be. There’s a woman in front of me, dressed in a white coat. She has brown skin.  
  
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a person with brown skin before.  
  
My mouth is held open by bands of something strong, but not steel. Not wood either. I can feel drool building in my mouth, but I can’t do anything about it.  
  
The brown-skinned woman is holding a bottle in her hand. I think there’s a liquid inside it. She’s talking to herself, or to someone I can’t see, but I don’t care enough to listen.  
  
There’s a tube in my throat. I’ve seen it before, in the dungeons of Reykjavík when we had a prisoner who refused to eat.  
  
She comes over to me. She’s speaking English, a strange choice, but I don’t care what she has to say. She pours the liquid into the feeding-tube, and backs away behind a door.  
  
Once she’s gone, the restraints release themselves and the tube retracts from my mouth in a shower of spittle. I half manage to stand, before my body starts to writhe and judder. I can feel my mass distending, my stomach expanding and my muscles bulging outwards to burst the seams of my clothes. I bring my hand up to my face and watch as it pales and turns translucent. I can see muscles and bone, paler than they should be.  
  
Unconsciousness takes me.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
I can see white when I wake up. That isn’t right. My cabin is the same grey as everywhere else on the ship, barring a few splashes of color from the posters or books. I blink my eyes in confusion, and bring my hand up to rub at them.  
  
I can see through my skin.  
  
The thought sends me rolling off the bed, but something’s wrong with my movements. I’m sluggish, and my toned arms feel like jelly. I look down, only to stagger backwards as I see a great bulging gut. I can see my digestive system, whirring and bubbling just beneath my system. It doesn’t look right, even given the translucent skin. It’s too large, and there’s no fat. Just organs.  
  
Somehow, that’s the thing that brings me back to my senses. I look around the room now, taking in the three white walls and the glass that acts as a fourth. There’s a bed, with a matrass but no duvet or pillow, a toilet with a sink and nothing else. The whole thing is lit by that ungodly white light.  
  
I lumber to my feet, idly noting that my captors didn’t bother to clothe me, or even provide clothes, and waddle over to the glass. By pressing my face up against it, I can barely see an endless stretch of corridor off to the left and right. Directly opposite my cell is another. This cell has no pane of glass, nor any door whatsoever, save for a white line across the entrance. There’s something in the cell, a gelatinous mass without form or shape, save for an Omega holding form on the creature’s membrane.  
  
Does its cell have no door because it cannot move, or because it won’t?  
  
I would hammer against the walls if I thought it would do any good, but they would not put me here if they thought I could escape. Instead, I drop to the floor and start running through ablutions, performing press ups and sit ups to try and shed this distasteful mass, if such a thing is even possible.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
I do not know how long I have been down here. There is no sense of day or night under this damnable white light, and no means by which I might pass the time. My exercise has had no effect whatsoever. It seems I am stuck in this corpulent form. A while ago, hours or days, I felt my lungs start to constrict, but the sensation passed quickly. I am getting hungry, though.  
  
“879 has shown no discomfort under oxygen deprivation. 879’s agent appears to be producing oxygen without the awareness of the subject.”  
  
A voice!  
  
A woman, standing in the corridor, talking into a black box. She looks oriental, like the crews of one of the great Treasure Fleets that sail from the Far East. She’s wearing a white coat, with an Omega on the shoulder. My mind fills with rage at the sight of her, and I slam my bulging fists against the glass. I have a moment of almost perverse joy when she flinches back in fear, but soon she realizes that this damnable glass protects her from me.  
  
“Subject 879. I have been assigned to assess the capabilities of your new form. Cooperate with me and you will receive food and water. Resist and you will be punished. Let us begin…”  
  


<|°_°|>

  
I’ve made them work for every scrap of gain. My body may be fat, but I still have the mind of a warrior. Though it might hurt, though their shocks and spells and invisible Wardens of this fetid prison might strive to keep me down, I refuse to cooperate. They might have given me strange magics, but I swear to turn them against my captors. I shall not rest until I have escaped from this damnable place.  
  
That is why I did not sit quietly when they asked. Why they have had to bind me in steel chains, and leash my mouth that they might be spared from my curses. I can see them now, the brown-skinned woman and a woman I have never seen before. She is dressed like a foppish minstrel, in a blue suit decorated with white lightning bolts that hugs her skin. They are talking to each other, ignoring me in the same way one doesn’t talk to the horse you are selling. This time I listen, for I have learned there is power in information.  
  
“As you can see, the subject’s appearance would improve public perception of you. In addition, 879 is capable of producing a number of noxious chemicals from his skin.”  
  
“Chemicals that mean nothing against my aerokinesis.”  
  
“Exactly. The perfect counter. We will also include several psychological triggers that would make the subject more likely to attack you specifically, and more likely to flee if overwhelmed.”  
  
“Well I’m tempted, don’t get me wrong, but I need a little more information before I’m willing to commit. I need something that’ll get me off the starting lineup.”  
  
“That’s quite understandable, Sandra. We have several DVDs showing the results of 879’s power testing, though I’m afraid you cannot bring them out of our facility. A room has been prepared, for your convenience.”  
  
“Thank you, Doctor Mother.”  
  


<|°_°|>

  
He’s disgusting. Barely more than a head and a torso, wiggling about like some fucking slug. They’re bringing him close to me, and I can feel something happening. Like a steady pressure on the back of my head…  
  


<|°_°|>

  
My eyes open wide with the shock of the memory, and I rub my hand against my temple to try and bring back feeling in my limbs. I’m reclining on a chaise lounge, the better to access the Case-53’s memory without moving my own limbs by mistake. As always, there’s a moments confusion as I reconcile my body with the one the memories remember. For a moment, I feel unnaturally thin and frail, but then my own sense of self reasserts itself.  
  
Normally I would simply lie down after so deep a dive, but this is a little different. I manage to roll onto my feet, perhaps a little more unsteadily than I should, and stagger over to my kitchenette.  
  
It’s not as fancy as the one in my Montreal apartment, but it serves. I take down a wine glass, before setting it back in favor of something a little larger. Gin and Tonic might not be the most elegant thing, but it sure hits the right spot. I carry the glass with me as I move to the window of the small building. It’s night outside, but then it’s always night. Dodge says things look better at night and so, since this is his pocket dimension, the night sky rests permanently above us.  
  
It makes a great canvas on which to think. These memories. They’re horrifying. An organization kidnapping people from other worlds, mutating them and selling them on to clients on Earth Bet. I just don’t understand how someone can do this.  
  
I don’t think I can let this pass me by.  
  
I’m not a good person, nor do I pretend to be. I’ve sold people memories of Trigger events, because they thought it would get them powers. I’ve lifted secrets from hostages heads for despots across the US and Canada, and I sift through memories like a field of wheat.  
  
But this… This is something else. Something I can’t just ignore. I have to go to the Protectorate.  
  
The dark expanse of Toybox, lit from below by an endless expanse of neon lights, is suddenly obscured by a blinding white light emerging from an orange portal. I wheel on my feet, only to see that woman step through. I back against the window, holding my hands up as if to somehow ward her off.  
  
“I, I, I did as you asked! I told them I could not recover the memories!”  
  
She’s standing there like a statue, in her simple suit and a fedora worn at a jaunty angle. She somehow exudes an aura of menace that locks my knees together, and I slide down the wall lost in despair. Then she speaks.  
  
“You did. But I needed to come back. That means you were going to tell someone.”  
  
I try and stammer out a denial, but somehow, I know that she can see through the deception. In desperation, I start to shuffle towards the kitchenette. Maybe I can get a knife.  
  
“Door to Alexandria.”  
  
My breath catches in my throat as another doorway opens, revealing the single most recognizable woman in the world. She strides through, power personified in her black outfit and helmet, a stone tower emblazoned across her chest. She looks over to the woman in a suit, and a moment of wordless understanding passes between them. I feel myself slump down in defeat, as I realize just how far their reach extends. I can’t talk. There’s nobody to tell.  
  
“Break her arm.”


	30. Menagerie: 5.01

The smell of salt and rotting fish hangs in the air, stronger than it ever was in Brockton Bay. I’m standing at the entrance to a cavernous warehouse, looking out over the estuary of Saint John River, up in Canada. Canada, I have come to understand, is essentially a colder version of America. The same brickwork and endless miles of tarmacked highways, the same low-rise cities free from heat shimmer or the glow of urban domes. Even the air above their industrial areas are clearer, save for a pillar of white smoke or black petrol fumes. This is a real port city.  
  
Our warehouse is on the West Side, a small dockyard that leads into a residential area, but I can see a much larger port on the other side of the river. Unlike Brockton, this port seems to be alive and well. Trinity Royal Docks stretch out before me, built atop a peninsula that juts out into the bay. It’s heaving with life, with dozens of container ships docked in front of immense cranes that unload their precious cargo and deliver it to an endless expanse of warehouses, stretching back into the city.  
  
Of course, like a lot about this world, all this life is just hiding a greater decay. Those docks are built on top of an old city, one that was washed away in the tidal waves created when a monster sank Newfoundland off the face of the Earth. It’s thriving, because Canada decided to build a newer, stronger, port to replace dozens of ports lost to earthquakes and tsunamis. Out in the bay, there’s a Sea Wall worthy of my time, built by Big Rig of Toybox to protect the entire estuary from the worsening ocean conditions. It’s an enormous mass of concrete, fifty feet above sea level and dotted with immense steel gates that can rise out of the sea floor in minutes to give the city some degree of protection.  
  
Apparently, there’s another one further out, still under construction, running from Yarmouth to Grand Manan Island. If they can get it right, then they can seal in the entire Bay of Fundy and divert all remaining shipping on the East Coast of Canada and much of the US, as much of it as is left, to a single fortified position. It sounds crazy, but then who am I to talk? This kind of mega-engineering happened all the time back home, the only difference is that we could grow it with Polyps. To build all this with steel and concrete is absolutely insane, and a worrying sign of just how dangerous these ‘Endbringers’ are.  
  
Mind you, I wonder if my world was going the same way? There was that storm in the Caribbean filling the news before I left. Whole islands sunk, tens of millions dead and Central America pretty much devastated. Maybe these guys are just ahead of the curve, and everyone should be battening down the hatches and hiding beneath Sea Walls and Urban Domes? Or maybe we’re all just doomed anyway, and we might as well live it up while we can?  
  
Fuck sake. I’ve been here a month and I’m already just as much of a mopey cunt as the locals.  
  
I shake my head and look away from the distant port. No need anyway, when there’s so much hustle and bustle right here. Our warehouse fronts onto one of the many dockyards, and I’m almost standing in the shadow of a cargo ship, not as large as the enormous ones in the main dockyard, but still pretty sizeable. It’s a simple thing, a bridge at one end, a bow at the other and hundreds of cargo crates in between. She’s called the African Queen, and she’s clearly seen better days. Her green hull is chipped and scored with rust, and the crew are unloading her lazily, as if they’re in no hurry to get out and risk the ocean again. There’s no way she’d still be running on entirely legal business, but then if it were legal, they wouldn’t have needed to hire us as security.  
  
Sure, most of the cargo is innocuous enough; nick-nacks and trinkets come over from Spain. Most of the cargo will go onto the back of trains or trucks, and end up in stores across North America where it will be bought by some wage-slave in an attempt to give his empty life some meaning. There’s no merit in importing staple goods like rice or steel, not to a continent as big as this, but America loves to consume, and most of the cargo goes to feed the consumers’ appetites.  
  
Most, but not all.  
  
Some of the cargo gets loaded onto enormous forklift-things designed to lift the heavy metal shipping containers. Some of the cargo travels meters, not miles, and ends up in the warehouse behind me. The ship did start its journey in Spain, but it stopped in Morocco first. Y’see, apparently Morocco’s had a bit of a coup, or a revolution depending on whose news you listen to, and the country has descended into a bloody civil war that’s devastated the capital of Tangier. Our boss, may they forever remain anonymous, was concerned that the cultural heritage of Morocco might be forever lost in the flames of the revolution, and so hired some local militias to raid Tangier’s holy and historical places, and spirit away the cultural treasures in a midnight raid.  
  
For purely altruistic reasons, I’m sure.  
  
The Islamist militias stayed in Morocco, thank fuck. I had more than enough trouble from religious bastards on my own world, thank you very much. Bastards kept trying to shut down Beastie Baiting as ‘a perversion of the rules of God and nature’ and, speaking as a perversion of the rules of God and nature, that just doesn’t sit right with me. That doesn’t mean we’re doing this alone, however.  
  
As I turn to head back into the warehouse, I give a quick nod to the guard standing beside me. The green armband on his sleeve marks him out as a Fenian, a member of the paramilitary group who are serving as our dockers and non-parahuman security. They’re specialists in cross-border smuggling, and they’ll be handling the delivery itself. All the boss needs us to do is protect the cargo during the riskiest part of this operation; transferring the stuff from the ship to the lorries that’ll bring it to him.  
  
“All quiet so far?”  
  
He nods at my question. It’s a little redundant as we’d be able to tell immediately if something went wrong, but we’re in charge of this lot for the duration of the handover and I’m still getting used to having a voice again.  
  
“Some of the local dockers got a little too nosy, but Anderson was able to buy them off with chump change.”  
  
No idea who Anderson is, or who this guy is, for that matter. Maybe I need to get a little more practice in with this leadership lark. I turn and start to walk back inside, when I hear the guard’s faux-Irish drawl from behind me.  
  
“What’s it like?”  
  
The question takes me a little by surprise, and I spend a couple of seconds just looking at him.  
  
“What’s what like?”  
  
Maybe my old voice doesn’t quite fit my new body, but at least people won’t confuse me for a bloke anymore. Probably.  
  
“You know. All… that.”  
  
Ah yes, that. He gestures with a hand, taking me in from tip to toe. He’s not armed, as an armed guard standing around outside a building might be just a little too suspicious. A lot of the other Fenians are, but then I understand the rules are a little different for non-capes. We’ve even got a few rifles stowed away in the van, just in case.  
  
“Hard to explain.”  
  
He nods a little, as if that answer didn’t really satisfy him. Fair enough, I guess. After a moment I decide that I’m not happy with that answer either.  
  
“Sometimes it’s great. When I’m running about, getting in fights, I feel like I’m on top of the world. It’s better than any drug I’ve ever had, and it’s just as addictive. It’s nice being part of a team as well; I feel like I can trust the Crew with anything, and I already trust them with my life. It’s a deeper connection than I’ve had in a long time.”  
  
I’m grinning now, looking up at the sky, and I glimpse down and see he’s grinning too. Then my smile fades.  
  
“Sometimes it’s shit. I can’t hide who I am. Not ever. I can’t leave the building to go buy a sandwich or walk in a park. I stick together with the Crew because there’s nowhere else I can go, unless I want to spend my life being poked and prodded by those cunts in the Protectorate. I can’t even fuck anyone, and I’d be very distrustful of anyone who did wanna fuck me.”  
  
The Fenian sighs, dropping his fag end to the ground and stamping it out on the heel of his boot.  
  
“Figures powers would suck just as much as everything else. That why you don’t bother wearing clothes?”  
  
I snort out a laugh, a weird sound that comes out of my speaker and my mouth.  
  
“Nah mate. I’m just not a pussy. Don’t let the weather tell you what to wear. Make the cold your bitch!”  
  
He laughs, and raises a fist in mock salute. I return it, and leave him to his work.  
  
The warehouse is a cavernous space, all dark shadows and flickering electric lights. The walls are covered in hooked chains, and the floor is made of cracked and broken ceramic tiles. The gutted carcasses of dolphins and whales hang suspended on great chains from the ceiling, their rotting guts spilling into great metal troughs. It goes without saying that it wasn’t like this when we got here.  
  
The warehouse is actually a pretty dull thing, all things considered. Just an empty room the exact same as every other warehouse we’ve visited. This is all Elle’s work, the poor kisa in full Labyrinth mode. It took a lot of talking, but we were able to get her to keep hold of her imaginary world without attacking the Fenians. We’ve told them not to sit on any of the furniture, just in case. The cargo’s being moved through quickly enough not to be affected, but if anyone decides to attack us then we have the ultimate area-denial weapon.  
  
I step aside to let a lorry rumble past me, filled with stolen treasures from across the ocean. We’re sending them off in batches, merging them in among the steady flow of traffic from the ports. It also keeps them from being in the warehouse long enough to turn into a dead whale, or something equally confusing. The smell really is fucking atrocious, by the way, and that’s coming from someone without a proper nose. The Fenians seem to be suffering from it as well, as I look at faces almost the same colour as their green armband. Still, it’s motivating them to work faster and they’re still looking at me with something close to respect. Their organization is Parahuman run, like everything else of note, apparently, but none of their capes are here today.  
  
I move past them, dodging sealed metal crates filled with priceless artefacts that I’m not actually allowed to look at. This warehouse has its offices in the middle, as the building is technically split into two ‘lots’, although we’re only using the one. I dread to think what the other half of the building looks like now, given that Labyrinth essentially has free reign over it. Apparently, her power has decided the theme of the day is urban decadence, so the metal walls and floor of the offices have been replaced with gnarled wooden paneling and a faded red carpet, with the occasional painting of steel-hulled ships being ensnared by some horrific squid things. Just where the fuck does she find all this stuff?  
  
Faultline’s on the top floor of the offices, positioned to look over the whole operation through a set of glass windows in rusty wrought-iron frames. There’s a Fenian with her, the Captain of their crew if I remember correctly. He’s listening in on a radio set, taking in reports at regular intervals from our sentries stationed around the warehouse, and a little further out. We can’t go out too far into the docks, as it increases the number of bribes we need, but we’ve got a couple of guys who could maybe serve as an early warning system. Faultline turns to look at me as I enter, needing to stoop a little under the low ceiling.  
  
“How’s it looking out there?”  
  
She knows the answer better than I do; she’s been up here with the radios after all, but it’s still nice to talk.  
  
“All quiet, if it bit smelly. How’s our little kisa holding up?”  
  
She looks a little confused at the term, like she was never taught to speak proper, but there’s only one person I can mean. Apparently, even in the relative opulence of the office, Elle’s power still won’t allow her to have fun. We sat her down on a folding chair, but it hasn’t changed in the same way as the others in the office. They’ve turned into slightly rotten wooden numbers with tasteful cushioned seats, but she’s sitting on a hard iron chair that looks like it belongs down on the killing floor. I’d put a cushion under her if I thought it would do any good.  
  
“Same as usual, I’m afraid. She was able to eat her lunch on her own, but only just.”  
  
I shake my head in dismay, and kneel down to look Elle in the eye. Not that I can actually see her eyes behind the full face mask, but it’s the thought that counts. For all I know, she can’t see me either.  
  
Where do you go, you poor little thing?  
  
“That’s seventy percent of the cargo unloaded, and sixty percent on its way out.”  
  
The voice belongs to the Captain, making his report to Faultline. I ignore them as so much background noise, and ruffle Elle’s hair with my paw.  
  
“Good. We’re running ahead of schedule.”  
  
Faultline moves over to the window again, her hands behind her back and her shoulders arched like a conquering general. It’s a pose I’ve seen her strike many a time now, something she does when she feels most in control of a situation.  
  
“Run a guard check in.”  
  
Her words are slow, but not in the same way as a nervous person. She sounds relaxed, like she’s confident in how things are going but checking up just to be sure. The Captain doesn’t question her orders, just flicks a switch on his radio set.  
  
“Overwatch to all points. Check in.”  
  
The faintest crackle of static comes through before the guard posts start to sound off in numerical order.  
  
“Alpha one, all clear.”  
  
“Alpha two, all clear.”  
  
“Alpha three, clear.”  
  
That’s the warehouse guards. A team at each door and another concealed on the roof.  
  
“Beta one, clear.”  
  
“Beta two, nothing here.”  
  
“Three. Clear.”  
  
A momentary pause, barely a few seconds of static.  
  
“Beta four, all clear.”  
  
“Beta five, all clear.”  
  
Those are our pickets. A few idlers standing around the main entrances to the port, counting our lorries through as they leave and keeping an eye out for trouble. Speaking of, was that a frown I saw pass across the Captain’s face?  
  
“Beta four. Alpha November. Respond.”  
  
Silence from the radio, and I feel the spines on the side of my head start to flare up. Faultline too turns from the window, and raises a hand to her ear. I hear her voice mirrored through my own radio as she communicates on the private channel reserved for the Crew.  
  
“Newter. Head to Beta four, they’re not responding. Be careful.”  
  
“Copy that, boss.”  
  
The malchick’s rely is surprisingly serious. I’ll never get how he can manage to keep it up, given how he usually behaves. There’s fifty-four seconds of tense waiting as he flits from rooftop to rooftop, before he comes back over the radio.  
  
“Shit. Looks like the RCMP are moving in on us, probably realize we’re onto them. Looks like eight cars and four vans. No sign of the PRT, though they’re probably holding in reserve.”  
  
Faultline’s response is immediate, and her voice is level and seemingly free of concern.  
  
“Spitfire, move in to hold them off.”  
  
It says something about how far we’ve come as a team that Emily immediately agrees to hold off an entire police force without any idea why. We trust Faultline to get us through this, just like she’s got us through so much more. Her next words aren’t spoken over the radio, instead addressing the Fenian Captain.  
  
“Spitfire will buy you three minutes at most while the Police hang back for the PRT. Load up what you can right now, then use route six to escape. We’ll buy you as much time as we can before bugging out.”  
  
He doesn’t waste time in replying, instead sending hurried instructions through the microphone. Outside the window, I can see the sea of figures break into sprints, hauling as many crates as they can into the lorries, while yet more men run in from the dockyard. One by one the lorries are sealed, and the first few start to slowly make their way out. It’s an agonizing process to watch.  
  
“Faultline,” Spitfire’s voice comes through the radio, “I’m about to attack.”  
  
I move over to the boss, an unspoken question on my lips. I could actually ask it now, but I don’t want to distract her.  
  
“Khanivore, I need you here for now. Be ready to move.”  
  
That answers that. I nod, and step out onto the balcony, the grilled iron floor creaking a little but holding strong. In the distance, I can hear the sound of a wet explosion, probably some fuel going up. Spitfire’s voice comes through the radio, ragged and breathless.  
  
“Police are pulling back.”  
  
“Good. Get back to the warehouse; the PRT will be moving in soon.”  
  
There’s a guard on the balcony beside me, one of the Fenians, armed with an assault rifle. He looks young, and his eyes are darting all over the warehouse. I’m a rock by comparison, happy to wait in silence until I need to pounce. It’s how I’ve lived my life, up till now at least. Inside the command center, the radio set crackles to life one last time.  
  
“Alpha three, incoming!”  
  
Barely a second passes before a section of the roof collapses in a hail of twisted metal. One of the chains snaps and dumps the gutted whale carcass onto the ground, trapping a couple of dockers beneath the filth and spraying chunks of viscera across the floor. It takes me a second to spot the armored shape descending through the ceiling, partially hidden amongst the twisted chains and girders.  
  
It’s a squat thing, segmented and snakelike that hangs in the air from four immense engines roughly shaped into metal ‘wings’. It just hovers there, like it’s lording it over us all, like we mean nothing to it. Its engines bristle with turrets and a fire burns behind its metal jaws. I hear a shout from the guard beside me, a terrified scream that has absolutely no effect on the silent predator hovering above us.  
  
“Dragon!”


	31. Menagerie: 5.02

The sound of screeching metal echoes through the warehouse as a Dragon forces its way through the roof. The Fenians are fast, though, and the screeching is immediately overshadowed by the deafening cracks of rifles being unloaded into the flying menace. In front of me, level with the office balcony, I see the grey metal suit light up in a shower of blistering sparks as dozens, hundreds, of shots scrape and shatter against the thing’s armour. It turns in the air, a lazy and gentle motion, and turrets spin on its mighty engines, all pointing down. There’s a thud-thud-thud as a battery of what looks like automatic grenade launchers fire a barrage of angular shapes that explode just before our guards, somehow expanding into great globules of containment foam large enough to cover a man whole.  
  
Some of our men run closer in, taking cover behind the rotting whale carcasses or the priceless artefacts of Morocco, forgotten in the firefight. The Dragon attacks them too, firing long jets of containment foam from hoses that flit from place to place with near pinpoint accuracy, only weight of numbers keeping her from overcoming our resistance entirely. There’s the roar of an engine as one of the lorries takes off, sending our men scattering and smashing through wooden crates that spill out to reveal stone statues now hopelessly ruined.  
  
The Dragon rises performing a lazy cartwheel in the air. Its turrets, mounted on the creature’s immense back, angle themselves to continue firing even as it reaches out to tear a great strut of metal from the network of blackened beams that supports the roof. It flips over again, faster this time, and hurls the bar away, its head not even bothering to watch the progress of the chunk of metal. The enormous javelin hits the front of the lorry with the force of a freight train, spearing through the engine block and hopelessly mangling the wheels.  
  
The eighteen-wheeled vehicle starts to slide in a shower of cascading yellow sparks, sending armed men running for cover as the cabin detaches from the trailer, turning in a sickening crunch onto its side and slamming into the far wall of the warehouse, pulping a heap of fish carcasses.  
  
Beside me, the young paramilitary man looks absolutely terrified, and brings up his own rifle to fire on the beast. I reach out with my right hand and push it down, fixing the terrified kid with a fierce look.  
  
“Don’t be fucking thick. Route six. Now. We’ll buy you time.”  
  
He doesn’t need to be told twice, and books it off to go join the efforts to evacuate. I spare the Dragon a single glance before ducking back into its office, taking in a pair of baleful red eyes and a flame burning in the back of a steel maw. Faultline’s in there, cocking the slide of a short-barreled rifle as she whispers something into Labyrinth’s ear. She’s strapped a set of webbing over her armour, a belt of pouches filled with magazines and supported by a pair of shoulder straps that cross her back. Part of me is confused, until I remember that she works by touch. She can’t do shit against the hovering beast.  
  
She shoulders the rifle and looks up from the kisa, and I feel the weight of her gaze on me as she makes her judgement. The Fenian Captain is gone, of course, and Faultline starts to make her own way out. She turns to me, and I can hear the fierce determination in her words.  
  
“Distract her.”  
  
Distract her. Right. Fucking horrorshow.  
  
Ah, fuck it. In for a penny, in for a pound.  
  
“Roger.”  
  
I’m speaking to an empty room. Faultline knew I’d do it, clever geezer that she is, and I can already hear her voice over the radio, calling together the rest of the Crew to her position. Elle’s staying here. It’s a risk, but one we need to take. Her powers could make or break this fight, and she needs to be at her best. The gunfire’s gotten a little quiet now. Those poor humans. This fight belongs to the superhuman, and those little mundanes just can’t keep up. Still, I guess I’m the closest thing to them here, appearances notwithstanding.  
  
Khanivore. Champion of human ingenuity. Sounds a little fake in my head.  
  
I’m stalling, and I know I don’t have time for that sort of thing. I just really don’t want to do this, don’t want to reach into myself and fire off the bioware processors that regulate my glands and send a concoction of hormones shooting through my bloodstream and into my fragile human mind. A concoction that burns through my nervous system like ice as it begins to activate. The slight disruption in my brainwaves causes a keening wail to sound from Cranial’s device, which I shut off with a thought. Cheap bloody affinity knockoff.  
  
I step back a couple paces, bringing me to the back end of the office, before breaking out into a spring. My feet tear through the ratty red carpet created by Labyrinth’s power and I duck slightly to pass through the doorway before driving my foot into the fragile metal balcony, launching myself upwards. I hurl my tail in front of me, separating it into its four tendrils as I do so, and reach up for the lattice of metal beams that crisscross the ceiling of the warehouse. The smooth bone blades pass the bars and curl back, catching the metal on the softer flesh and sending me forwards across the ceiling.  
  
It’s an act worthy of any circus performer; a whirling dervish of limbs and tendrils that carries me along the roof of the warehouse, a dozen meters above the distant floor. I can see my prey in front of me; a steel beast flashing with the concussive force of cannons, and surrounded by steams of white foam like streams of bunting. As I clamber ever onwards, time itself seems to slow down as the Slo-Mo courses through my head, increasing the processing speed of my brain.  
  
It’s this chemical edge that lets me spot the grenade launcher that manages to swivel towards me, and the trio of grenades that shoot out across the empty air between us. Rather than using my tendrils to move forward, I pull back on them to haul me up and reach out with a hand to grab onto an A frame, standing for the briefest moment on top of the same metal girder I had been swinging under. I push off with my foot, using the effects of the drug to place my claws with a ballerina’s grace on each metal girder. The trio of grenades burst beneath my feet, the deluge of white foam that would have captured me instead flying uselessly through the air just beneath my feet.  
  
I drop back down, hooking onto the scaffold again and moving far faster hanging on four limbs than I can do leaping on two. The Dragon is watching me now, with its beady red eyes and burning flames behind rows of steel teeth. It’s still hovering in the hole it made, just barely within my reach, but as I watch it angles its engines to pull back, stranding me above the ground. I let out a wordless scream of rage, a reverberating snakelike roar that echoes throughout the warehouse.  
  
As if in answer to my cries, the ceiling of the warehouse expands to cover the gap, cutting off the blue of daylight in a shower of steel and chains. Great links of barbed metal fall upon the Dragon, curling and binding it like metal snakes. Labyrinth.  
  
My roar turns triumphal, and the Dragon’s engines flare as it tries to pull itself free from the chains stained rust red by the blood of dead whales. At the last moment, I pull my tail back together and, with one last heave on the metal scaffold, launch myself through the air towards the Dragon. Its cannons are still firing, but Elle has pulled the beast back so as to angle them away from me.  
  
I hit the beast, hard, and scramble with my claws to find purchase on its steel hide. I splay out my tendril, driving the blades into any joint or gap I can find, though the exoskeleton is surprisingly complete. I barely manage to hold on as a paw swings towards me, travelling in slow motion to my drug-addled senses. The force of my impact drives it backwards and down, the same direction as its engines are thrusting. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or not, but Labyrinth’s chains shatter once my momentum hits the Dragon.  
  
We’re flung out into the open air, hurtling towards the floor even as the four pulsing engines try to swivel and correct the course. I’m determined not to let that happen, and clamber around the beast, holding on with my arms and legs and using my tendrils to stab at every exposed spot I can see. Not that there are many of those. I just about manage to slip through the arms of the machine as they attempt to bring me close in a crushing hug, and for the briefest moment as I haul myself up my face comes opposite the Dragon’s own.  
  
We stare at each other for a fraction of a second, though for me it feels more like forever. I can see every detail now, this close. The red glow of the eyes comes from a ring of lights that surround a camera, like a mockery of an iris and a pupil, and the flames beneath her rows of steel teeth are just the pilot light beneath a wide nozzle back where her throat would be. There’s an intelligence behind those eyes, something fierce and wise. I’m able to move faster than her, though not because of the speed at which I’m thinking. It might be a hunch, some deep animal instinct, but I get the impression that her mind is keeping pace with me, but her hardware isn’t.  
  
And, just as quickly as it came, the moment passes. Her face is out of my view, and I’m left looking at four weighty engines bristling with firepower. I could start sticking my blades into the glowing bits, but that doesn’t seem very safe and there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Instead, I drive my spikes into two turrets on the foremost engine, stabbing through the thinner metal, and grip onto them with my claws while straddling the shoulders of the beast. I’ve seconds at best before guns turn on me, and I know I don’t have the time to be subtle. Instead I grip the Dragon’s shoulders with my feet and push backwards, throwing my entire bodyweight into the twin turrets. I feel the tendons in my arms and tail stretch to breaking point, then start to snap one by one. There’s no pain, because putting pain receptors there would be counterproductive, just a dull awareness of each strand and cluster of fibers as they snap one by one.  
  
The con-foam turrets come away in a creaking mass of pipes and wires, and the pressurized foam in their magazines bursts out to cover the four engines, clogging and jamming whatever tech Dragon’s using to generate lift. I fly back, propelled into a backflip by my leap that passes agonizingly slowly as the chunks of broken machinery fly from my claws. I’m still falling by the time the flip is done, and I can see the Dragon dropping like a stone, its engines gunked beyond repair.  
  
In an act of spite, one of the grenade launchers tracks me even as we both fall, and fires off a trio of grenades straight towards me. I’m falling still, and there’s nothing to use to change my direction like last time. Instead I spin my tail around, pulling the four tendrils back into one, and use the enormous limb like a scythe, bringing it down to cut through the grenades which burst in a shower of white foam.  
  
I hit the ground hard, landing on the tail bone of a dead whale whose rotting carcass starts to writhe as Labyrinth’s power flows through it. I roll with the blow, though not enough to stop microfractures from forming throughout my chest and left arm, as I slide off the carcass and onto my feet. I try to pull my tail apart, but Dragon must have some kind of primo-grade foam as it’s set a lot faster than the last lot. I can still move it, but the tendrils are all gunked together.  
  
My vision blurs briefly as the drug’s effects wear off, but my vision clears just in time to catch a glimpse of something writhing in the guts of the whale carcass, a flash of the Dragon’s back, its engines and turrets covered in a thick coating of white foam. My jaw drops as I start to see the glow of the engines come through the foam, and curls of some sort of green smoke start to rise as the hard coating turns liquid and starts to run off. What does it take to cripple this thing?  
  
I hear the pounding of feet to my left, and see a red-clad figure start to clamber up the whale, standing a little uneasily on the uneven flesh. Spitfire runs up the spine of the dead beast, almost slipping off before barely managing to catch herself. She looks down at the writhing metal monstrosity, her fear becoming her edge and keeping her in the fight. Spitfire sprays a jet of napalm from her lips, and the liquid fire pours over the still-writhing metal beast. Gregor hauls himself past me to join her, adding a fuel of his own creation to the fire.  
  
The whale carcass starts to tremble beneath their feet, and they both leap to safety as chains rise up from the ground to lash down the carcass, and the Dragon within, while the bones of the great beast close in to form yet another cage. I can see Faultline off by the wall of the factory, her hand pressed against the wall, looking on the verge of collapsing. Whatever she’s doing, it’s taking a lot out of her.  
  
There’s a pregnant pause, before the groan of metal starts to echo through the warehouse. The ceiling above the dead whale starts to sag, then shatters entirely. Great beams of metal start to fall, lengthened and sharpened on the way by Labyrinth’s power, before the entire ceiling caves in above Dragon, smashing into the carcass and burying it beneath a ton of twisted metal.  
  
My tail, unconsciously poised ready to strike, drops to the ground and I begin to let out long heaving breaths as my mind starts to calm down. Faultline’s voice comes through my radio and I almost jump in shock as I realize she’s been transmitting this entire time; I was just too caught up in the adrenaline rush to hear her.  
  
“Newter. Stay with Labyrinth for two minutes, then carry her to the extraction point.”  
  
“Roger.”  
  
Faultline starts to run towards the warehouse door, and the rest of us move to follow. She quickly explains that the PRT have pulled back temporarily, apparently the fight with Dragon was too hot for the Parahuman Response Team to handle, so we have a short window of opportunity. I turn to make my escape, starting to sprint, when I pick up a kind of crackling, popping sound from behind me.  
  
The sound of burning fat.  
  
In an instant, I’ve dropped into a roll that brings me back around to face the whale. I almost have to close my eyes when I see the eight, needle thin, violet beams firing out of the heap of metal and into the ceiling. They’re silent, save for the crackling of melting blubber and the juddering sounds of superheated metal colliding with each other, as they carve through the debris, and much of the roof, in a kaleidoscopic pattern.  
  
The lasers stop, as silently as they began, before the whole heap explodes upwards in a shower of metal and viscera as the Dragon flies up. Her metal hide is scuffed and scarred, and many of her turrets have been sheared clean off, but she’s still functional and she’s still flying. More chains emerge, only to be severed by the same near-ultraviolet beams and the Dragon spins in the air to face the warehouse’s office block.  
  
To face Labyrinth.  
  
I move without thinking, diving to the ground besides a misshapen pile of foam that might hold one of our human guards, and pick up a loose rifle. I don’t even know what I’m doing, just pointing the barrel at the flying figure and hoping beyond hope that the Fenian knew how to use this thing. I try to pull at the trigger, only to be stopped by a small piece of metal in the way. It crushes under the weight of my claw, depressing the trigger and sending six shots into the air before the magazine is empty. Not enough. Not nearly enough.  
  
As I watch, helplessly, the Dragon unleashes a torrent of foam from jets and grenades into the offices, systematically moving along the windows room by room. I just stand there in shock, mutely looking up at the horror, before I hear a voice come through on the radio.  
  
“I got her out! I’m not sticking around, and I suggest you don’t either!”  
  
Newter, you magnificent bastard!  
  
I scramble back around, my tail flying uselessly behind me, and start to run for the exit, the rest of the Crew a little further ahead now. The light of the sun from outside the gloomy warehouse is almost as bright to my eyes as the Dragon’s lasers but I press on, even as my hearts start to pound out a furious rhythm.  
  
And then something catches me on my right foot, just as it presses off the ground, and I fall. Foam, spreading up one leg then the other, pouring onto me in great heaping mounds. It’s happening so fast I barely have time to thing as I see the others turn at the entrance, torn between freedom and their teammate. If they come back here, if they come back for me, they’ll be captured for sure. We can’t beat this thing. Not without Elle.  
  
I can see the dilemma working its way through their heads now. I can’t let them make that choice. The foam's covered my right arm now, pinning me to the ground with three points of contact, but I still have my left arm, and I can still reach my neck. I look straight into the eyes of Faultline’s welding mask as I tear Cranial’s device from my neck, before crushing it in my hand. The foam covers my head, and spills down to cover me completely. That last thing I see before my eyes are completely covered, is an empty view out the warehouse door.  
  
Go.  
  
I won’t talk.  
  
Go.  
  
But come back for me.


	32. Menagerie: 5.03

I can’t see.  
  
I was barely able to shut my eyes when that stuff covered them, and even now I can feel the solidified foam cementing my eyelids together. Fuck knows what I’d do if it had gotten on my eyes themselves. So instead I’m left looking at absolutely fucking nothing. You ever look at the other side of your eyelids for so long that you start to see colours? Yeah, that. I can see colour slowly flowing across my vision, faint and indistinct, slow patches of green or yellow that fade in and out as my mind struggles to fill in the gaps. They’re getting brighter now, as my mind slowly degrades.  
  
I can hear, just about barely. Nothing real, nothing useful, just whatever happens to pass through the slightly thinner coating of foam around my auditory organs. I think I’d go mad if I couldn’t hear. There’s a couple of voices out there, a few deep ones that probably belong to PRT officers and a louder, higher pitched one that might be coming from that fucking Dragon. There’s more too, a fizzling sound and the barest sensation of heat by my feet. My balance is gone now, the fluid inside my inner ears dipping slightly. It’s the only way I can tell I’m moving.  
  
They must have cut me off the ground. Figures they’d get me to a cell before scraping this shit off me, or whatever these psycho bastards do to get rid of it. All I know is that it doesn’t fucking give, no matter how much I try to break through.  
  
No, that’s not entirely accurate. There’s just enough give to soften the impact of any blow. It’s more like a gel than a foam, at least when hardened. I try wigging the fingers of my right hand, as much as I can, but get nowhere quick. Sure, I can cut through a little bit of the foam, but it fucking grows from the cuts. I think it expands on contact with the air.  
  
At least I can still breathe. By some stroke of good fortune, my mouth was open when I got hit. Of course, what made it even luckier was that Dragon was firing from behind. The foams already creeped over my teeth, basically sealing my mouth open, and there were a few very tense moments when I was convinced, I was going to swallow the stuff. The material’s slightly porous or something, as it’s letting through enough air to breathe with. Or, enough air for a human to breathe with. I need quite a bit more, and if I didn’t have the larger surface from my open mouth then I’d probably suffocate.  
  
As it is, I can just about get enough oxygen in if I work at it.  
  
There’s another sound, shaking its way through the gel. Meaty and forceful, sending tremors throughout the viscous coating. Fuck. I think that’s an engine. The faint voices are gone now, swept aside by the sheer presence of the unseen aircraft. It’s definitely an aircraft; much too load to be a van, and I don’t think they’ve carried me close enough to the water for it to be a boat. This could fuck things up a little, I figured they’d just drag me down to the local Millicent station and the crew could bust me out through the wall. This is something else entirely.  
  
And just as quickly as it came, the noise disappears. I’m not so naive as to think the aircraft’s up and left without me; I can still feel the fluid in my ears swaying from side to side, and the noise cut off almost immediately. We’re airborne, heading fuck knows where, in a jet so advanced that I can’t even hear it from the inside. There are more voices now, low conversation between new speakers and that same woman from before, though her voice is coming from all around me now. Dragon. Fuck. Of all the places I don’t want to be, a Tinker’s plane has to top the list.  
  
Pain.  
  
Pain flushes through my synapses, creeping through my nervous system and bludgeoning its way into my all-too-human brain. I feel tendons spasming along every limb, sending me into a shaking spiral of phantom pain as pins and needles dart along my flesh. I feel my tail try to separate itself, only to spasm uselessly against the cocooning prison of foam. Somehow, the lack of movement makes it even worse. The bioware processors are on the fritz, sending out erratic demands for movement only to react as the required action never happens. It’s a negative feedback loop, consuming more and more of my senses until all I can feel is a kind of stabbing numbness that tears right through me.  
  
I can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, can’t move at all. All I can do is wait helplessly as my body does its best to shake itself apart. I can’t really feel pain anymore, not in the same way I used to, but this about as close as I can get to pure agony. Everything I used to use to escape this feeling is gone. I can’t patch in to my old body’s nervous system, cutting off all sensation from this one entirely. I can’t distract myself by drinking myself stupid in some shitty pub, or by shagging one of the groupies. I can’t even fucking see anything.  
  
With no way to move, no way to hear, or see, or speak, I start to lose track if time. I think I fade in and out of consciousness, collapsing from fatigue before being shocked back up by anomalous signals and false positives. I have no idea how much time has passed and, in fleeting moments of lucidity, that worries me. Why wasn’t I shoved in a van and taken to a Millicent compound? Why the red-carpet treatment? This problem cycles through my mind, running round and round without actually going anywhere. Don’t have the focus to bring any of my thoughts to a conclusion. Don’t have the focus for thought.  
  
I don’t know how long it takes, but after a while the tremors start to shake themselves out, and the last remnants of the drug filters its way through my bloodstream, reabsorbed into the same gland. Nothing wasted, wherever possible. I’m not shaking any more, and the fugue state has been replaced by a full-body ache from countless wounded muscles. Gradually, sound starts to filter through the cocooning foam. Voices, others stuck in the back of this aircraft. Their tone sounds relaxed, friendly even. They don’t sound like other prisoners. I can’t make out any of their words clearly enough to help me figure things out, but it’s probably important that I’m not the only one back here.  
  
The voices stop, and I start to hear the whirr of the engines through the hull. This plane has got some top-class soundproofing. There’s a short, sharp jolt and I judder about in the containment foam for a moment before settling back into agonizing stillness. I think we’re here. There’s the banging of boots on metal as the other passengers file past me, definitely not prisoners then, followed by a slight sensation of imbalance as they wheel me out.  
  
Outside, the roar of the aircraft dies down before cutting off entirely. I can hear hurried voices, and Dragon speaking up again. In the distance, I can hear the crackle of fireworks, some fast, rapid, bursts and some meatier bangs. No, not fireworks. Gunfire. What the fuck is going on?  
  
The shots are abruptly cut off, and I feel downwards movement this time. An elevator? Not sure how far down I’m taken, but it does take a while. Then it’s just more forwards movement, occasionally made livelier by the sound of boots pounding their way past us. These bastards are busy, I can tell that much. Dragon breaks off at one point, though I can only tell by the way her voice abruptly gets quieter. Eventually, they bring me to a stop, and I’m left sitting in silence. I think they just dumped me in a room! Don’t they know I’m injured?  
  
I silently fume in my cocoon for a while, not like I have any other option, until a couple of new sounds draw my attention back to the outside world. I’m not alone anymore. I tilt my head in curiosity, an automatic response, only to feel the foam give slightly. It’s still a gelly mess, but there’s less resistance than there was before, as if the hardened exterior has been weakened. The sudden ability to move my head is so shocking that I immediately start thrashing about, flailing around like a wild animal as the coating of yellow-white foam on my skin seems to get more and more pliable.  
  
I feel the pressure on my right eye lift, and hesitantly try to open both sets of eyelids. The sudden harsh light is almost blinding, and I have to suppress my instinct to close my eyes. I have to know what’s going on here. I have to see. While my eyes adjust, I start to open and close my jaw, feeling the foam sluice off in response to a foul-smelling liquid being dispensed from a sprayer held by an armored PRT trooper. I snap at him, more out of habit than anything else, and he leaps backwards, leaving the last of the foam to slide off my head.  
  
My head, but nothing else. I’m free to look around, taking in the sight of four PRT troopers armed with containment foam sprayers, the fifth with the counteragent recovering his wits from the other side of the room. I see him shake his head, as the other troopers have a laugh at his expense, and move forward with his sprayer. They have the US flag on their shoulders, which is worrying. Why did they bring me across the border?  
  
I’ve seen their sprayers in action before, back in Boston. They’re designed to throw as much of this fucking foam, over as wide an area, as possible. This one isn’t like that. It’s like a bloody water pistol, sending out a narrow jet of foul-smelling liquid a very short distance. It’s precise, though, and slowly but surely the PRT goon dissolves the foam on most of my upper body, leaving my limbs and tail trapped in a meringue of foam. I try to snap another bite at him, only for one of the other bruiseboys to glue my mouth shut, before coating my spiked crest with a child-safe line of foam.  
  
I can look around, but not much else, so I settle in to staring menacingly at one of the troopers. I can’t see her face behind the tinted visor, so I have no idea if I’m actually freaking her out, but I’m not going to let that stop me. After what feels like ages, during which I simply enjoy flexing what muscles I can, the door to the room opens up, and three… things… walk in.  
  
I say things, because I honestly have no idea what the first two are. They look like walking piles of moss and lichen, clumped into a vaguely bipedal shape. They move like servitors, automatically yet naturally, but they seem to be made entirely out of plant matter. They take position on either side of me, which probably makes the third fellow their leader. He’s clearly a cape, with a costume made of leaves and what looks like strips of bark, and half his face is covered by an oak leaf bent into a sort of bandanna.  
  
He’s looking at me with naked curiosity clear in his eyes, so I switch focus from the PRT agent to try for a staring contest. Unfortunately, before I can act, he turns as yet another person steps through the door. The room’s getting more than a little crowded now. I figure she’s someone important, because she’s not wearing a uniform, just a Kevlar vest under a blue jacket with PRT written on in yellow letters.  
  
“Deputy Director.”  
  
The Protectorate Cape, too old to be a ward, nods to the woman as she enters, and steps aside a little so that she can get a good look at me. She doesn’t share his fascination, instead staring at me with disgust in her eyes. It’s not a good look, but I’m not stupid enough to lunge at her.  
  
“Lagoon, cocoon this thing,” she turns to one of the PRT officers. He has some lines on his uniform that probably mean something, but damned if I can tell what, “then process it and dump it in one of the Brute cells.”  
  
The officer nods, and the four of them train their sprayers on me while the cape steps forward, his bare fingertips raised to touch my cheek. I try to flinch back, but the remaining foam doesn’t have enough give. I feel a sense of pressure where his fingertips touched, and I see a small bud sprouting off my skin in the corner of my eye. It spreads out, crowing creeping vines and mossy buds that move to cover my skin, lashing me down. It doesn’t touch my eyes, and seems to concentrate on my left side. The side I fell on, where my bones are riddled with microfractures and torn tendons.  
  
Is this git a healer?  
  
Pretty soon I’m cocooned in a bundle of moss, vines and lichen from head to toe. It doesn’t touch my eyes, and it’s less dense on uninjured flesh, but it’s still constricting. There’s a mirror to my right, which I’m sure isn’t two way or anything, and I can see myself in it, looking like a particularly angry bush. I’m hit by the same sort of sensation I get in the tank, a feeling of slight electricity that courses through my cells.  
  
The guards form themselves up around me, two of them taking the handle on the back of the trolley while the others keep the nozzle of their sprayers trained on me. They start wheeling me back through the corridors, corridors I can actually see now. Not all that impressive to look at, to be honest, just cream walls and fluorescent lighting, with a basic grey floor. The people are a lot more interesting.  
  
Something big is going on. Something to do with the gunfire I heard when we landed, and the general weirdness about everything that’s happened so far. The corridors are heaving with bodies, all moving from place to place in a state of great urgency. There’s a file of PRT troopers that run past with guns, real guns rather than their foam sprayers, pressing themselves to the wall as they shuffle past us before sprinting down the corridors. I caught a flash of a Canadian flag on their right shoulders, which means they were probably the other passengers on the plane with me.  
  
The doors all have little glass windows in them, so I get brief glimpses into each room as we pass. Most of them are just offices, largely empty, but a few look more like control centers, with big banks of monitors and groups of serious looking uniforms from the PRT, Police and even what I think is the Army. They’re looking at a map of a city, marked with a big red zone in the middle, but I didn’t get a good look at it. Even if I did, it’s not like I’d be able to tell where it was. Where I am.  
  
The bruseboys push me off into a corridor, then back into a grey lift. Even deeper underground now, unless I’m in a skyscraper or something, and then it’s back out into yet more corridors. Things are a little more active here, soldiers and PRT troopers moving around in a rush, or sitting around putting bullets into magazines. The corridor widens before opening up into a garage, filled with vehicles in all sorts of colours, with all sorts of letters painted onto the side. A truck pulls up, and I see a flash of dead flesh piled up in the back.  
  
From there, I’m pushed into what looks like a converted sports hall, filled with makeshift cages made of stout iron bars. The cages are filled with servitors, hybrid creations from dozens of different species mostly standing around motionlessly, like they’ve been cut off from their affinity links. I recognize a few of them as the leapers Poison Apple had with her in the bar, stripped of their concealing trench coat to reveal a hybrid of human flesh and insectile limbs, their face the only human-looking part of them. They aren’t standing around like the others, instead flinging themselves against the bars in a berserker rage.  
  
I’m wheeled before another PRT officer, typing into a computer on a desk placed in the dead center of the room. She looks up at me, before consulting something on her screen and typing. She mutters to himself as she does.  
  
“Variant 43… Designated Khanivore… Preliminary threat, Brute 4, Mover 2…”  
  
“Take it to cell B-one-eleven.”  
  
Cell B1.11 is apparently a cube of a room, spacious for a normal person but a bit inconvenient for me, with a heavy, vault-like, door that closes shut with the successive thumps of deadbolts, leaving me stuck on the trolly, cocooned by both foam and foliage, and watched over by four cameras set into each corner of the ceiling. A nozzle extends from the roof, dispensing a mist of solvent that starts to dissolve the foam around my legs. Once the foam is all gone, a second spray of frigid water blasts out of the walls and clears off the solvent. I’m finally free.  
  
Well, not free exactly. I’m still in a cell, and still being constricted by the vines. The thing is, the mossy cocoon is about as threatening to me as a piece of tissue paper, and I already know it’s healing me. Why get rid of a good thing, when good things might be hard to come by here? Instead, I curl myself up on the floor and surrender to sleep.  
  
I’m woken by the clanging of a metal hatch in the wall, rolling myself upright as dead foliage falls off my body. A section of the smooth concrete wall has slid upwards, revealing an alcove with a metal tray. I approach it warily. There are three cubes on the tray, each a foot across. One of meat, one of fish and one of what looks like compacted lettuce. As I eat the fish and meat, I can’t help but wonder just what the fuck is going on here.


	33. Menagerie: 5.04

So here I am. A beast in a cage.  
  
Cage is probably the wrong word. Cages are for lesser things, like those Blasto beasts back in the gymnasium, servitors weak enough to be stopped by iron bars. This is something a little heavier, more serious. When that slot in the wall lifted to reveal the tray of food, I saw three feet of solid concrete surrounding me, with a thick steel plate halfway through, and the door’s probably around one and a half feet of solid steel, or some bullshit Tinker metal. Putting me in here is a sign of respect, or at least fear.  
  
The cell itself is basically a ten-foot cube; more than spacious for any baseline human, but the confined space forces me to stay on all fours or bash my head against the ceiling. What makes it worse is the metal sphere embedded into the ceiling, barely twenty centimeters in diameter, that lowers my space even further. There’s a bed made of solid metal bars, supporting a matrass around two centimeters thick and coated with plastic sheeting. A vent in the ceiling cycles a steady flow of cold air into the room and there’s another beneath the bed, presumably to drain the blood.  
  
The toilet, such as it is, is absolutely dire, and makes me glad I have a digestive system efficient enough to ignore all that. It’s just a trough set into the floor of the cell, with three buttons and a small hole set into the wall, about four feet off the ground. I idly flick one of the buttons, and a spray of water jets out of the hole, before draining away through the ‘toilet’. A shower, then. Putting it four feet off the ground seems like taking the piss to me, but then I’m not an architect specializing in soul-crushing.  
  
The door to the cell was a lot larger than the others we passed, but they all followed the same bulkhead design. This must be a cell for larger prisoners, maybe Case-53s, which raises questions over just how small the actual cells are. There’s a TV next to the door, embedded into the wall behind ten centimeters of Perspex, with a camera set into the top of the frame. Somehow I doubt it’s been provided for my entertainment.  
  
And that’s it. That’s the casa Khanivore. Four walls, a bed that’d collapse under my weight, and a shower I can’t fit in. I pace from one side of the cell to the other, a journey of a single step each way, and start to get antsy. I take a closer look at the door, the narrow gap between door and frame, and separate a single tendril from my tail, bringing it up to the paper-thing line of empty space.  
  
I strike, and the moment the first sliver of bone touches the wall the cell is filled with a keening wail, and something crackles behind me. I turn, just in time to see the metallic sphere in the ceiling start to glow blue, and crackling electrical bolts play across its surface. A moment later, I feel pain flashing through my body, as an electrical current forces its way through my nerves and processors. I slump to one knee, clutching my hand to my chest in an automatic reaction left over from my last body. My strength fades as the current ramps up in intensity, and I collapse to the floor.  
  
Another clang wakes me up, and I roll over to see the same section of concrete has lifted up. Shit. Means I’ve been out long enough for them to decide to feed me again. I haul myself to my feet, as my bioware processors iron out the last of the spasms caused by the electric shock, and crawl over to the tray of food. There’s less of it this time, just one cube of unidentifiable red meat, and I grunt in irritation. Seems the three cubes weren’t so much a meal as a menu, and beef is apparently cheaper than fish. I’m hurt by their miserliness, but that doesn’t stop me wolfing it down. Bastards could have cooked it, though. Wouldn’t have made a difference, nutrition wise, but it would have tasted a lot nicer.  
  
Alright. The waiting’s starting to grate on me, and I’ve slept through most of it. Can’t touch the door, can’t sit on the bed, can’t stand up. Can’t even take a fucking shower. I’m not used to this, even now. Not used to just waiting for so long, with nothing to do except pace one step to one wall, then do the same to the other. Don’t touch the door though, not unless you want a shock!  
  
It's fucking maddening!  
  
I don’t know how long I spend just pacing about, not like I’ve got a way to tell time, but after what might be a few hours the television suddenly switches itself on and beeps. The screen flashes yellow before switching itself back off. I roll myself off the floor, and move my face up to get a closer look at the screen. It’s still stuck behind Perspex, but I can see the camera shifting slightly as the lens focuses itself.  
  
Somebody’s watching me.  
  
The screen lights up again a few seconds later, displaying a blank wall and a smiling kid. He looks young, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, but it’s hard to tell thanks to some truly impressive deformities. It looks like the right side of his face has slid down a little, and his right arm is shriveled and curled up against his chest. There’s something off about his back, but I can’t make it out clearly enough as he’s facing the camera. It surprises me, seeing somebody like that. It’s the kind of genetic condition that got geneered out decades ago, the only kind of bitek the Pope and the Mullahs actually like.  
  
Fucking hypocrites.  
  
Except… maybe it’s not a genetic condition. Tattooed onto his shriveled right hand is a familiar symbol, a slanted Omega. A Case 53, then. Mutated as a result of his power, or mutated in the attempt to give him power. These Case 53s must be the failures, otherwise why dump them onto the planet at all? But then, if they’re the failures, where are the successes? Was the mutation what made them failures? Was it the memory loss, or were the powers just not powerful enough for the conspiracy? And what did they see in a high-end piece of combat bitek?  
  
The cape, probably a Ward, speaks, his voice twisted slightly by what must be an irregularly shaped throat.  
  
“Nice to meet you. My name’s Hunch, for obvious and hilarious reasons. Normally I’m with the Boston Wards, dealing a fierce left-hook of justice to villains and ner-do-wells, but today I get to wear a different hat.”  
  
He actually takes up a hat at that, a blue baseball cap set onto his head with his left hand. There’s an acronym there, in yellow letters. WEDGDG. Might as well be in fucking Greek for all it means to me.  
  
“I like wearing this hat. Watchdog Consultants get a pretty good hourly rate, just for sitting at a desk. I get paid more here than I do going out on patrols. The benefits of being under eighteen.”  
  
There’s no amount of verbal bludgeoning that’ll get that acronym to spell Watchdog.  
  
“Anyway. Director Anderson asked me to look at you for a while, since you can’t… wont… can’t speak for yourself. So just sit tight there while I do a little Thinking.”  
  
Don’t think I didn’t spot the unspoken capital letter, you malchick. Try as hard as you want, you’ll not get a fucking thing from me.  
  
He doesn’t talk again, just sits there in front of his monitor staring at me on the screen. He must want something from me, else he’d just look through the cameras without bothering to show his face. Fucking Thinker, probably lifting secrets right out of my head. If his powers work with some sort of brute-force affinity, telepathy if you’re being crass, then there’s not a whole lot I can do, but if they’re based on visual cues, then I can take steps to minimize them.  
  
I turn around, showing my back to the Thinker, and start a staring contest with the wall. Behind me, he starts his own contest, seeing just how long he can stay absolutely silent. I know that if I were to turn and look at the screen, then his face would be right there, probably fucking grinning at me. It’s a battle of wills, and I don’t lose fights. That’s my whole fucking deal.  
  
Somehow, I’m able to use that blatant lie to hype myself up enough to ignore the watchful eyes of the Government’s Watchdog, and commit myself to staring fully at the wall. It only takes a short time for my observer to speak up, making this another victory to add to the pile.  
  
“Fun fact. The fight didn’t stop when Dragon knocked you out. The PRT and the RCMP had the entire docks surrounded. Some of your hired help tried to fight their way out. That didn’t work. Your team were cleverer, trying to sneak out through the back. Might have worked too, if the PRT didn’t have guys with thermal cameras. You wouldn’t know the capes that got sent in, some local Canadian group, but your team gave as good as they got.”  
  
He pauses, and my teeth bare themselves in an involuntary action as I let out a low growl from my throat.  
  
“Gregor the Snail was the first to go down. Poor guy couldn’t keep pace and ended up foamed by PRT troopers. Newter ended up in what I’ve been told was a pretty badass mover fight, leaping from rooftop to rooftop, that sort of thing. Ended in mutual destruction, if you can believe it. The Canadian cape hit your man with a Taser, only to collapse from his Striker power a few seconds later.”  
  
I’m looking over my shoulder now, just a little, seriously debating whether I can reach through the telly and rip this bastard’s spleen out.  
  
“Faultline, now she was amazing. Your boss… owner… whatever, you get what I’m saying. She’s like a mentor figure to you, or something. She did quite well, ducking into a warehouse and doing a decent Shaker impression using her power. It true she dropped a building on Chevalier? No? Ah well.”  
  
My mouth dries up, an ashy taste that catches my breath in my throat.  
  
“Still, it’s not her fault that the Canadians brought a Brute. Busted right through the wall and knocked her down for the count. Sorry about Labyrinth, though. She got hit pretty bad, but the PRT are getting her some good medical care. She’ll be back home in Asylum East before you know it, and the cast will be off her leg in a few months.”  
  
I whirl around, and roar into the screen, a long cry of hatred as I picture myself ripping the Ward apart, driving my blades through his skull. The moment I turn, I see the world’s largest shit eating grin on his face. That just makes me roar louder, filling the tiny space with immense noise.  
  
“Looks like I got your tentacles in a twist. Well, it’s been lovely to talk at you, but I have everything I need now.”  
  
The screen switches off, and I’m left looking at a mirror image reflected back at me from the glossy black surface. A beast, nothing more, with rage in its eyes and a gaping maw filled with sharp teeth.  
  
The screen flashes yellow again, beeps, and six seconds later Hunch appears again, his WEDGDG hat conspicuously absent. He looks a little sad, even.  
  
“By the way, I was lying about your friends. They made it out safely.”  
  
He disappears again, and I catch myself before I fall. That bastard was lying to me. He played me like a fucking fiddle, probably right from the start. My breath burns hot in my throat, and I close my fist as much as I am able, only the limits of my tendons stopping me from driving my razor-tipped claws into the palm of my hand. Instead, I bring my head back and drive it into the black screen, the spiked crest driving through the Perspex before sending a spiderweb of cracks across the screen itself.  
  
I feel a moment of immense joy, before the crackling noise starts up behind me again and I struggle to lever my crest out of the inches of Perspex, before yet another electric current courses through my veins. This time I don’t take it lying down, struggling in the few seconds I have left to bring my hand up to the sphere and tear it from the ceiling. I fight against every burning nerve ending, bringing my hand to within centimeters of the pulsing sphere before my nerves fail me, and I drop to the floor in a heap.  
  
I’m allowed to wake in my own time, this go around. Not that the term really means anything to me right now. The lights here have remained the same throughout my stay, and there’s no way for me to tell just how much time has passed. They’ve fed me twice, but does that mean it’s been two days, or two meals a day? Maybe not even that. Maybe I’ve been here for much, much longer. I’d probably have an easier time telling this sort of thing if I didn’t keep getting myself shocked into unconsciousness, but it really is the best way to pass the time in here. The only way, come to think of it.  
  
I spend some time leaning against the wall. If this were a film, then I’d have a ball to bounce against the opposite side, but I have no such luck. Maybe I can fashion a ball from the next cube of meat they give me? Use that to bounce against the wall, keep myself occupied?  
  
No. That’s not a good idea. I’d get meat bits everywhere and I doubt this place sees much in the way of cleaning, at least not when it’s occupied. Ideas like that are the perfect example of why not to leave me alone with my thoughts.  
  
The destroyed remains of the TV lets out two beeps this time, garbled a little from where I must have damaged the speakers. No idea what that’s supposed to mean. Maybe it’s the signal for when they shock you on purpose. That would be a nice change of pace.  
  
Heavy clunks start to sound throughout the cell, and I hear what sounds like metal screeching against metal. It takes me a second to connect the sound to the deadbolts opening in the door. Someone’s coming in. I raise myself up to the feet, my tendrils poised to strike behind my back, ready for a death-or-glory escape. If they’re finally here to gut me, then I’ll give them a good fight for their troubles.  
  
I’m not stupid. I know why I’m here, back in the US. I know why they’re keeping me with all Blasto’s servitors, why they’ve been feeding me raw meat. I know why nobody bothered to read me my rights, and why they feel like they can electrocute me whenever they want. They think I’m a fucking servitor, some mindless thing cooked up by Blasto. If they think I’ll go down like a mindless thing, then I’ll prove them wrong.  
  
When the door swings open, I realize just how useless all that talk is. There are four guards with containment foam launchers outside, and another four behind them with rifles. Their fingers are on their triggers, their weapons held in steady hands without a hint of nervousness. They’ve prepared for this; they’ve prepared for me. Two of the rear bruiseboys step aside, followed by the two on front of them. They were surrounding a man in a suit, a little short, for a man, with dark skin, a receding grey hairline made worse by a high forehead, and a weirdly sharp jaw. His face was set in an emotionless scowl common amongst those in authority.  
  
“Khanivore. I am Director Kamil Armstrong of the Boston PRT. You’re staying in my facility, and you broke my television. I’m here to chat, and I need to know if that’s going to be a problem.”  
  
I’m a little taken aback; I was expecting a firing squad, instead I got a slightly overweight man in a suit. Now I’d be the arsehole if I attacked. Instead, I sit down on the floor, opposite the bed. Still can’t sit on the bed; looks much too flimsy for me.  
  
Director Armstrong steps into the room, a lot more confident than someone wearing nothing but cotton has any right to be, and takes a seat on the bed, putting his head level with my own.  
  
“You represent something of a problem,” he begins.  
  
“You see, you’ve presented me with quite the mystery. On the one hand, I have the adamant insistence of a respected Protectorate leader that you are a tinker creation, most likely one of Blasto’s. We know you interacted with him, and Hunch has confirmed that you were created, rather than mutating through the same process as the Case 53s. You’d think that’d be the end of it, but there are a few more problems. We have a set policy regarding the creations of hostile tinkers, especially biotinkers. You probably passed Blasto’s other creations on the way in here. They have all been incinerated.”  
  
I move just a little, only to have eight barrels trained on me through the doorway.  
  
“And there we have the problem. You see, that same Protectorate leader testified that he witnessed you position yourself in between a teammate and the Protectorate, displaying genuine concern for her. Then we have the two Wards that saw you drinking on a rooftop, and the photos you posed for afterwards. Finally, we have Hunch’s assessment of your reaction to his little story. All clear indicators of sapience.”  
  
Shit. Has he figured it out? I mean, it would save me from a furnace but I’m still not comfortable telling these cunts my history, especially not when every other person with this brand is an amnesiac.  
  
“I don’t know why Blasto created a sapient creature, or why he would give it to Faultline. Frankly, I don’t need to know. I have far larger concerns.”  
  
He hesitates for a moment, as if unsure over whether he should be telling me this.  
  
“Your creator has gone missing. We only found out when his creations started to degrade. Some of them went on a rampage through the streets, others just shut down and starved to death. It’s taken us this long just to control the situation, and I’ve hardly had an hour’s uninterrupted sleep since it started.”  
  
He brings a hand up to mop the sweat from his brow, and I spot the bags beneath his eyes for the first time.  
  
“Most men might accidentally leave the stove on when they skip town, but Blasto was never satisfied with being most men.”  
  
Those words were spoken in a low tone, more to himself to me. Blasto’s disappearance is news to me, but fortunately the director doesn’t seem to expect me to know anything.  
  
“Regardless, I have a dilemma. I can’t keep you here indefinately, not now the emergency’s over, but I don’t want to kill a sapient being, even if you were artificially created. So, I have a solution of sorts.”  
  
That piques my interest. I lean up a little, wary of the heavy firepower just outside the door.  
  
“There’s a facility a few hours from here, Asylum East. It holds Parahumans with mental issues or uncontrollable powers in a series of wards with varying degree of security. Less well known, is that it also holds more serious cases, such as the victims of biotinkers, in a more secure facility beneath the surface. I intend to try and have you stored there. You’ll have enough space to move around in, and enough freedoms to feel comfortable. With good behavior, I may even be able to persuade the powers that be to allow you to join the Boston Protectorate given time, if you want to get out of captivity. I have a certain weakness for charity cases…”  
  
He leans forward, his hands steepled in front of his face, and looks me in the eye for the first time.  
  
“I can only do this if you’re willing to cooperate. No more broken televisions, not a hint of trouble. In exchange, I’ll grant you escorted trips out of your cell while you’re here. I know this room is a little small for you.”  
  
He falls silent, looking at me expectantly as he waits for my decision. I mull the idea over in my head, before nodding.  
  
I’ll do it. I’ll make all the right noises, agree with whatever you say, slip on a pretty gold dress and sashay about in front of the people you want to impress. I’ll be your golden girl, the ideal pet.  
  
At least until it’s time to slide in the knife.


	34. Menagerie: 5.05

I decided to risk the bed.

It creaked and groaned, but held fast. Guess a Brute cell needs a Brute bed to match. Makes me feel a little silly about lying on the floor, though. The two centimeters are nothing, but there’s something satisfying about lying on a bed, even one as hard as this. It’s a reminder that I’m not just some mindless creature. Animals might sleep on the floor, but people need to raise the floor up on four posts, and throw a few soft things on top, before its good enough for our standards.

It also gives me time to think, but then I’ve had a lot of that lately.

Faultline… If I were a badass take-no-prisoners mercenary lady, and one of my team had been captured by the fucking peelers, then what would I do? She’ll come for me, that much is obvious, but when? They’re moving me to Asylum East, sooner or later, and I know that’s where she found Labyrinth. Would she attack then? It’s familiar ground, but that means they’re familiar with her too. She might attack here, but probably not. This is the heart of darkness, so to speak, a fucking fortress by anybody’s standards, filled with Capes and Millicents.

By now, she must know that something unexpected happened. Too many strange things have been going on for her not to. She talked me through what to do if captured, once. Normally I’d have gone to the nearest PRT station, instead of being shipped across the border to Boston. Normally the PRT would have announced the capture, and normally they’d have let a lawyer in to see me. Faultline even has one on tap, a whole firm just waiting to leap to our defense. They’d have been shown the door once the hunchback made his conclusions, if they even made it to Boston.

Organizations like the PRT leak like a sieve, and I know Faultline has Information Brokers on tap, so she must know by now about the planned transfer, whether through a leak in Boston, or some underpaid white-collar at the Asylum. She’ll hit the transport. It’s the most vulnerable point, a single window of opportunity. It’s my window too. There’s no way I can get out of this cell, not with the electric countermeasures, and I doubt I’d be able to escape if they let me out for a bit, not in the heart of their castle. I imagine it’ll be much the same at the asylum.

Play the game for now, Sonnie. Keep up appearances just a little longer. If Faultline doesn’t hit the truck, then I’m fucked. If they foam me on the journey, I’m fucked. If they decide to transport me by air, I’m fucked. If I end up in the asylum, then I’ve lost. There’re so many different ways this could go wrong, but I can’t let that stop me. Sometimes you have to plunge into the unknown, to get out into that ring. Sometimes you have to wait until the enemy has you skewered, before you can deal the killing blow.

Behind me, the battered remains of the television beep twice, and the few functional parts of the screen flash red, broken up by glitches and shards of black glass. I slowly roll myself out of bed, using my tail to lever myself back upright. This’ll be them, then. Good. I’ve been stuck in here for far too long, even if I don’t know just how long it’s been. The deadbolts go clunk, clunk, clunk and the cell door starts to smoothly swing outwards, so the prisoners can’t get at the hinges, but it’s not a team of bruiseboys waiting on the other side.

Instead, there’s just one shape in the doorway. A teenager, dressed in one of those American-style jackets in red and white, looking around fifteen or sixteen. He looks fit and healthy, and there’s an honest smile on his face. Completely unremarkable really, if it weren’t for the fact that every part of him is made of metal. I’ve met him before, of course, back when we were last in Boston, but I wasn’t so focused on what he looked like back then. Didn’t pick up on the traces of silver that follow the lines of his cheekbones, or the silver iris in each eye.

He steps into the cell without a hint of fear, easy enough when you’re metal all the way through, and holds out a hand.

“It’s good to meet you again, under better circumstances this time.”

There’s a moment where the smile wavers on his face. Our last meeting might not have been good for him, but I won there, and got away clean. At least he has the decency to look a little guilty over that. It doesn’t stop me reaching out with my own hand, much larger than the metal Ward’s, and shaking, though I have to bite down the urge to shoulder check him against the wall. I do note the way he very deliberately checks his feet as he steps over the doorframe, even though he’s wearing a pair of white trainers.

It trawls up memories of a manhole cover wrapping itself around his face like a scarf, a memory I file away for later.

Weld steps out of the cell, again being very sure about where his hands and feet are, and steps down the corridor. He clearly expects me to follow, and I oblige him. Much better to play along for now. The corridors are quieter now, without the National Guard or the PRT running every which way like headless chickens. Looks like the cleanup’s over. A couple of millicents occasionally pass us by, but they press themselves against the wall to avoid the odd pair. And what an odd pair we are; a boy made entirely of metal, and a beast pacing beside him on all fours. I could have just about stood up in this corridor, walked about on two legs, but anything that keeps them underestimating me can only be a benefit. As we go, Weld starts to make small talk.

“You know, I was in that cell. Just for a night, when I first came in.”

I turn my head up to look at him. It’s the reaction he’s expecting from me, but I’ll admit I’m interested in what he has to say.

“You probably know how it goes with Case 53s. I wasn’t any different, woke up as a head and a torso in a junkyard on the edge of town. Had to sort of wiggle my way around, until I touched a car door.”

He rubs his hand through the hair on the back of his head, each follicle an individual strand of metal, and grins sheepishly.

“I might have gone a little overboard when I found out I could absorb metal and add it to my body. Made enough noise to bring the Protectorate down on me, but luckily, they were able to get me to calm down. I was nine feet tall when I first got here, and that cell was the only room in the building with a bed that could support my weight. The door was left open, of course. Wouldn’t want to accidently brush against it.”

And that confirms it. His power’s involuntary. I can use that…

Conversation kind of trails off after that. Fine by me, it was a little one-sided anyway.

Weld leads me back through the corridors I last saw when I was foamed on a pallet, and covered in leaves. He brings me out into the sports hall, now free of the cages full of Blasto’s gibbering Servitors. They’ve swept away every trace of the previous occupants, having completely cleared away every beast, structure and cell. They’ve even waxed the floors, by the look of it. Now it looks like every other sports hall I’ve ever been in, right down to the same type of big clocks on the wall.

We’re not alone, but we do have half the room to ourselves. The only other company is about two dozen people gathered at the other end of the hall, an orderly line of men and women being spoken to by a giant of a man, well over six feet tall. They’re all dressed in uniform sports kit, black shorts and identical grey t-shirts with PRT 24 stenciled on the back, and a smaller logo on the right breast. Join the cops and you’ll never have to worry about coordinating your outfit.

Fucking robots.

Still, so long as they stick to their half of the hall then they can stay. Weld glances over at them for just a moment, before walking over to one of the walls. There’s a rack there, with a number of red balls. Lines of paint on the floor divide the hall into three white rectangles, with hoops and backboards mounted on the wall at either end, so it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he’s planning. Sure enough, he starts to bounce the ball on the ground as he walks back towards me. Off to the side, I see the millicents break off into pairs around a number of mats, one lying on their back while a partner grabs their feet. The instructor blows a whistle, and they start doing sit ups.

“You ever play basketball before?”

Weld’s question brings my eyes back to him. He’s got rid of his jacket, wearing just a tanktop now. The silver-traced muscles running along his arms, and the faint impression of muscles beneath the tight-fitting vest, must make him a teenage heartthrob the world over. I’ll bet there are posters of him on the walls of millions of teenage girl’s bedrooms. He’s certainly no Gregor, that’s for sure.

I shake my head. Was always more of a football girl. Those were the days! Crammed into a stadium with thousands of sweaty men, dressed in a blue and white outfit that left next to nothing to the imagination, no matter how much of a bite there was in the wind. Joining in with the crowd to salute the players with a warcry a hundred years old; ‘No one likes us, we don’t care!’ Slipping my way through the pubs after the match had ended, dancing and writhing with anyone who’d have me, before things got crazier.

Then it really kicked off. Goin’ out just looking for a fight, charging the bruiseboys’ shield wall with nothing but me own pumped up rage to get me started, and booze-numbed senses to keep me going. Standing over some Hammer shit, a broken bottle in my hand, the air filled with shouts as the Lions pushed those fucks back out of our turf. No matter how much we might fight among ourselves, no matter how many gangs struggled over our little patch, there was only ever one force on game nights. The United Kingdom of Millwall.

“Right, so there’s a whole bunch of rules, but most of them only apply to teams. The goal is to get the ball into the net, that counts as a point. You can only use your hands, and you can’t run with the ball so you need to dribble it like I am here.”

Listen mate, I get what you’re going for but I know how the game works. I drop to all fours, digging my heels in a little to get ready to pounce. Weld responds by lengthening his limbs slightly, raising his height up by about a foot. Seems this is going to be a no-holds-barred match, which is fine by me.

Weld’s mouth twists into a cocky grin, and he tosses the ball gently up into the air. We both wait for the fraction of a second it takes the ball to come back down, before leaping forward. We both close the distance in an instant, me pushing off with my immense thigh muscles while Weld does something funny with his legs that sends him leaping off like a rocket.

We meet in the middle, circling around the ball before we both dive in. Neither of us are going out of our way to clobber the other, that’s just not how the game is played, but we’re not trying particularly hard to avoid it either. I have more reach, even with Weld’s extended limb, so I’m the first to reach the ball, trying to move it around the side of the Ward. He does something funny, though, ducking under me and moving his arm to snatch the ball away while I’m a little distracted. I have to dig my claws in to arrest my movement and turn on the spot, then push off to catch back up. It’s not fast enough, though, and he’s able to get a shot off at the board.

When it bounces off, he back off a little, leaving me to scoop up the ball in my hand and start dribbling. He’s surprisingly maneuverable for his weight, but I think that has more to do with his familiarity with the game than anything else. I’d still have the edge in a fight, which is what this is really about for me. I move forwards a little slower this time, trying to keep my distance from the Ward without getting too close to the edge of the rectangular ring.

He’s good, though. He’s maneuvering himself just enough to be able to reach no matter what I try. It’s what I’d do, back in the Pit; control the ground and you can control the fight. But this isn’t a fight, so the rules here are a little different. I don’t try to dodge or feint or pull off any fancy bloody footwork, instead I barrel down on him like a freight train, dribbling the ball all the way. His eyes widen a fraction, and I think he’s planning for me to try and barge straight through him.

Just what I want him to think.

Instead, and at the last second, I slam the ball against the ground, and raise myself up to my full height before grabbing the ball, and throwing it over Weld’s head towards the hoop. Twelve feet, plus an extra six feet of arm, can give a girl a lot of height when she needs it, and the ball soars straight and true towards the hoop. For a second, I think I’ve done it, before my jaw drops as the ball bounces off the hoop, then the backboard, before finally landing on the floor. If this were a real game, I’m sure that’d be worth some points, but both of us have silently agreed that the only thing that matters here is getting the ball into the hoop.

I hear a groan from off to the side, and tilt my head to find the source. It’s not the PRT agents, they’ve moved on from press-ups to sit-ups, and it wasn’t Weld. I look up, and see a couple of figures on a balcony recessed into the wall of the sports hall. I raise myself up a little to get a closer look, and freeze when I spot the shriveled right arm of the closest figure.

I move without thinking, driving my four tendrils into the ground in an immense jump that carries me up, before grabbing on to the balcony with one hand while driving my feet into the walls. I perch there, halfway up the wall of the gymnasium, and look at the two Wards, my teeth bared. Hunch backed himself up against the wall the moment I leapt, but the second either didn’t notice or didn’t care until I was right up in his face. He’s an odd looking fellow, with a mask that probably does all kind of cool stuff, but just looks like a pair of bright orange swimming goggles.

It’s right at that moment, when I see his eyes widening in naked fear, that I realize this might not have been the best idea if I’m trying to get them to underestimate me. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound. At least Hunch recovered quickly, and approaches me with a sheepish look on his face.

“Hey, Khanivore…”

I nod, and the hunchback rubs his hand through his close-cropped hair in thought. Now that I can see all of him, his deformities become even more obvious. His namesake is there, a bulbous mass on his back, and his knees don’t quite bend right. He seems to move fine, though.

“Listen… I’m really sorry about what I said over the Console. The Director asked me to try and get a ‘strong emotional response’ out of you. I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through right now, but I hope it’ll all be okay soon.”

Some part of me still wants to disembowel him and wear his entrails as a scarf, but I push it down. I’m not a kid killer. That’s one line I have yet to cross, and it’s not one I want to cross anytime soon. So I nod, and switch my grip on the wall from my left hand to my right, holding out the freed hand in a gesture of reconciliation. He can’t exactly shake it normally, it’s much too big, but he manages to get a grip on a couple of fingers. The very fact that he doesn’t slice his hand to ribbons on the claws, suggests that he’s a lot tougher than he looks.

We share a glance, and then I drop to the floor. When I turn around, I can see the two-dozen PRT officers watching me, before the Instructor forces them back to work with a shout of ‘show’s over!’ They start to line up behind a set of traffic cones on one side of the room, then set off at a slow jog to a set on the other side of the room, working under a series of beeps that sound like they’ll be getting faster and faster.

The Basketball game’s a lot more fun than whatever that is, and Hunch cheers me as I step back on to the pitch. Weld’s still there, still with that cocky grin on his face, bouncing the ball under his arm.

“You know, technically the match never stopped…”

The cheeky malchick rushes forward immediately, dribbling the ball from his left hand to his right, and back again, as he ducks and weaves from side to side. I use my tendrils to match his movements, skidding about on the polished floor in an attempt to gain back some degree of control. I spot an opening, a single instant of weakness, and strike out with a tendril to knock the ball back along the floor. Weld gets ready to block me on either side, dropping to a crouch with his legs ready to spring, so I hit him head on again, twisting myself so that my back catches his neck, and I roll over his back before ending up on my feet.

As I roll, I catch a glimpse of the rest of the gymnasium, the PRT agents picking up the pace as they follow the orders of their mechanical master, another agent in a blue jacket leaning against the wall by the entrance, watching me. In the balcony, Hunch is cheering me on with his left arm raised into the air, while goggles films the game on his phone.

My feet hit the ground, hard, and I use that momentum to drive me further forward, throwing my tail to the right as a counterbalance while I lean with my left arm to scoop up the ball. A quick bounce sends it up in the air, and I drive my tendrils into the ground to follow it, catching it with my hand while my tendrils move me closer and closer to the hoop. With my height, it’s easy to drop the ball through the metal ring.

The audience, or at least the half of the audience that isn’t staring at a phone screen, cheers. The PRT agents don’t react, they’re starting to look a little exhausted, but the man in the blue jacket uses the pause to walk up to Weld. Words are exchanged, but I’m to far away to hear them, before Weld walks over to me, his hand held out.

“Well done, Khanivore.”

I take his hand in a firm grip, and we shake. Seems the match is over.

“That was news from the Director. Asylum East have been more accommodating than he was expecting, and he’s asked me to get you there. There’s a truck waiting for us in the motor pool.”

Bugger.


	35. Menagerie: 5.06

They’re waiting for me in the garage. A squad of PRT officers, standing around two trucks. Same trucks as always, really. I think they must have a bunch of them, different on the inside but the same on the outside. It makes sense, no need to tell any attackers which truck has the prisoner and which has the heavily armed squad of goons. Of course, the rear doors of these two are open, so it’s a little easier. Doesn’t take a genius to tell who’s taking the truck with seats running along the wall, and who gets the truck with one seat by the doors. That one has canvas stretched over the walls, just in case it was still unclear.  
  
Weld moves to stand beside the cozy truck, and smiles amiably at me. One of the PRT troopers moves forward with a containment foam sprayer in his hands. My concern shows on my face, all my hard work at being more emotive paying dividends, and Weld frowns and scratches his chin, with only a little screeching as his metal skin rubs together. He fixes me with a serious stare.  
  
“You’re not going to cause any trouble, are you?”  
  
I scoff, and shake my head. It’s what he wants to hear, and I’m a little hard to read, so it’s what he sees. He doesn’t even hesitate before waving off the PRT guards. The armored woman, really hard to tell that sort of thing underneath all the armour, seems a little put off, but moves back to the squad. They pile into the van, which cements them as my ‘escort’, and I take note of what they’re carrying. Eight bruiseboys, with what looks like a sergeant and two foam sprayers. The rest are carrying submachine guns, which might be a little optimistic on their part. I’m not really bulletproof, but I did okay with small arms fire back in Philadelphia.  
  
Once I’ve seen what I need to see, I clamber into the van, moving my way to the far end of the small space. I turn around, to see Weld buckling himself in to a seat, and take note of how my talons have torn the fabric a little. A PRT agent closes the doors from the outside and cuts off all light, save for the overhead bulb in the middle of the trailer. I settle myself down onto the carpeted floor. It’s not a comfortable surface by any stretch of the imagination, just thick enough to stop Weld sticking to the walls, but I suppose it’s better than bare metal. Still, I’ve been in this situation before and I’m not going to be in this one for sixteen bloody hours.  
  
Yes I’m still bitter.  
  
I hear an engine start behind me, in the front of the van, and then we’re rolling, my only indication the slight lurch as the wheels start moving. I drop onto all fours, resting my head on my hands, and close my eyes for a while. No point trying anything while we’re still in Boston, and I never realized up till now how much I need windows to cope with long journeys. In front of me, I can see Weld’s taking his job as a guard seriously, trying to keep me in the corner of his eye at all times. Wonder how long that’ll last.  
  
I let myself drift off, knowing the uncomfortable floor and the state of the roads will have me back up before things get critical. Sure enough, a particularly sharp bend rocks me back awake, and I bang my shoulder against the side of the van. Weld flinches at the noise, looking up from his phone. He has headphones in his ears. Knew he wouldn’t be able to stay focused forever; he’s a good kid, but he’s still just a kid. If I can’t sit still for this long, and I really can’t, then there’s no way he’d be able to.  
  
I cock my head and look up at him, hoping he gets the question.  
  
“You’ve been asleep for about half an hour. We’ve not yet passed New York.”  
  
So, if I remember right, that means we’ll be passing through quite a few forests and country roads. I roll myself upright, leaning against the back wall and looking at Weld, who’s looking a little concerned but has only taken out one headphone.  
  
Not like there’s much else to look at, unless I want to develop a sudden interest in beige carpeting.  
  
After a while, Weld goes back to his music. We sit there in silence, no idea how long for, with the cape sneaking the occasional glance over at me. For a while, I think he’s just going to zone out into his own little world, but then he takes the headphones out and swivels on his seat to look at me. For a few moments he just stares, his mouth slightly open as he tries to form a question in his head.  
  
“Did you… Did you like being with Faultline?”  
  
No need to delay here. I nod my head, trying to look a little sad while answering genuinely, like I’m remembering something that happened a long time ago.  
  
“How’d she treat you? Like a pet?”  
  
I shake my head and smile, hiding just how insulted I feel.  
  
Weld leans forwards a little.  
  
“Like an employee?”  
  
Now that one’s true, to an extent. I raise my right hand up to shoulder level, and wobble it about a bit.  
  
“Kind of?”  
  
Nod.  
  
“Like family?”  
  
My smile’s genuine at that, and I nod my head. We’re maybe not completely a family, it’s a little more professional than that, but I know Faultline cares about the kids, and I care about them. I think she cares about me too, even if I’m the drunk aunt of the bunch.  
  
Weld leans back in his seat, pressing his back against the fabric covering the rear door.  
  
“Director Armstrong’s like a father to me. I’m glad of that. He’s a little bit like that with Hunch, but Hunch transferred in from Seattle a few months ago, whereas I’ve been with the Director pretty much since I woke up. He doesn’t sugarcoat things around me, though. If the PRT wants me to kiss someone on TV to boost perceptions of monstrous capes, then he’ll tell me that’s why they want to do it, while the PR guys who set it all up will hide their motives, or try and get me to think it was my idea.”  
  
He tips his head back, and just stares at the ceiling.  
  
“Sometimes I’m jealous what the other Wards have. We get along, and they’re all great people, but they go home at the end of every day. They have sisters or brothers, mothers and fathers. They go home, and I just stay in our rooms in the Wards base. I’ve never had a family like that. Probably never will.”  
  
His head is still pressed against the doors, but his eyes flick down to look at me.  
  
“It sounds like you did. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry we’ve taken you away from them.”  
  
I don’t really know what to say to that. I don’t really know what I can say to that. It’s not really something I can get across with a few had gestures or grunts. So, I don’t. I don’t try and respond, just lean back against the wall and stare into space. After a while, Weld slips his headphones back in.  
  
Don’t know how long we both just sit there, on opposite sides of the van, just zoning out, but it lasts for quite a while. I manage to get tranquil, if nothing else, while Weld’s fingers start to dance in time to some unheard beat. Whatever he’s listening to, he’s really getting into it. Makes me a little pissed he didn’t bring a speaker instead of headphones; only music I’ve heard so far has been the stuff that gets played at the Palanquin, and the advertiser-friendly sanitized dross that gets broadcasted over the radio.  
  
That’s when it happens. That’s when they strike.  
  
There’s no warning, no hints of any kind. One moment we’re driving along as normal, the next I feel the van lurch forwards, as the driver throws on the breaks, before it tips into some unseen hole. Weld isn’t so lucky, having taken off his seatbelt, and flies down the van from his seat. I move faster than I can think, scrambling to the side and scoring a line down the canvas wall with my tail. Weld shoulder checks the wall, without so much as a wince, and I grip his neck in both hands.  
  
He’s still wearing a jacket over his metal arms, but his head and hair have been left exposed. Before he even has the chance to recover from the fall, I’ve slammed his face into the dividing wall between us and the cabin. My first strike misses, denting the wall as his face hits the canvas, so I pull back for another. This time I drive his head through the tear I made, connecting his skin with the bare metal frame of the van itself. As I had hoped, his face sinks through the wall as his power automatically tries to absorb the metal. A swift kick to the rear lodges him further in and I turn my back.  
  
He’s neutralized, for now. There are bigger threats out there, ones I can actually damage. I drop to all fours, my tendrils splayed out behind me, and run the razor-sharp blades of reinforced bone along the roof of the truck, scoring four deep furrows from end to end. From there I can pull myself up to my full height, levering away the strips of metal I’d carved into the ceiling, and hopping up out of the van.  
  
I can see the second van in front of me, screeching to brake against the wet road.  
  
It’s raining. I never noticed it was raining. I’m back outside.  
  
I push those thoughts down when I see a Cape in Kevlar body armour, with white cloth hanging from it like robes. She slams her hand onto the truck and turns to look at me, the red light of my van’s tail lights glinting off the visor of her welding mask. I follow without question, pouncing from one van to the other before scrambling up the engine block. As I do, I see a line of metal shear its way along the surface of the truck, branching into two lines when it reaches the roof. A way in.  
  
I raise my tendrils to strike, and haul the roof apart with my hands. I know what I’ll find inside; eight PRT troopers in various stages of getting out of their seats. I’ve been in that situation before, back in Boston, but I nearly blew it then. I was a wild animal, just flailing about bashing them against the walls, and it almost got me caught. This time I remember that’s not what I was built for. I’m not some brawler built to dish out as much damage as I can while taking one hell of a beating.  
  
I’m a surgeon, and this is my fucking hospital.  
  
Sure enough, when I rip the roof apart, I can see the squad raise their weapons to meet me. I ignore the guns and the people, and focus on the two troopers with foam sprayers. The two troopers with backpacks filled with a highly volatile expanding adhesive. Two tendrils drive down, piercing all the way through the backpacks, and I leap off the van. Someone tries to barge their way through the rear doors to get out, but there’s an obese Cape in a black jacket leaning against it. They bang the door once, twice and then fall silent, while a mass of yellow-white foam rises out of the top of the van like a loaf of bread.  
  
I turn back from the neutralized squad just in time to see an orange blur dart away from the cabin. Looking inside, the two drivers are both unconscious, and one of them is pinned into his seat from where I stepped on the engine. Doesn’t look like he’s hurt, though. Newter moves over to the cabin of the first van, sunk hallway into a pit that opened into a pipe that ran under the road, but quickly has to dart back as the metal starts to writhe and deform. Faultline and Gregor run past me, while Spitfire and Newter back up from the vehicle. Faultline turns back once, throwing me a small black box.  
  
I catch it easily, and turn it over in my palm. Another Cranial voicebox. I jam it into my neck without hesitation, feeling the barbs and drills settle their way through my skin, and focus on the device, activating it through the primitive affinity neuron symbiont. I can feel it now, that slight presence at the back of my head. I snarl, more of a roar really, and run up to stand with the Crew.  
  
Weld’s halfway out of the cabin now, struggling between absorbing the metal and trying to move past it. It’s quite admirable, given that he can see five capes in front of him, and the trees starting to warp behind our backs as the trees themselves start to twist under Labyrinth’s power.  
  
“Stand down, Weld. It’s six against one.”  
  
Faultline barks the words out like an order, before nodding to Gregor who runs off to the woods. Moments later, I hear the sound of an engine starting and the distortion in the trees fades as Gregor brings a familiar van out of the woods. We start to pile in, but I pause on the backboard, my hand held onto the roof.  
  
“Sorry, Weld. You’re a decent bloke, but family’s more important.”  
  
He wasn’t expecting me to talk, and he reacts as if he’s been struck. His struggling ceases, and he looks up at me, his face half-melded into the metal frame of the van.  
  
“Was it all a lie?”  
  
I laugh, through the voicebox and in my real voice. I can Spitfire looking up at me from inside the van, a question on her lips.  
  
“I never bought in to that ‘intelligent design’ bollocks. People are just too… inefficient for that. They’ve evolved to be okay at whatever they need to do, but that means they’ll never be great at it. Capes are the same, else you wouldn’t be half-fused into a van right now. But me? Well, I was built for one thing only, and I’m fucking brilliant at it. I’m a work of art, Weld, and I deserve to be seen. Not locked away in some cage.”  
  
I rap my tail twice against the van, and it starts to speed off. I give Weld a final two fingered salute, before pulling myself into the van and closing the doors with my tail. They’re all here. Faultline up front, in what I have to stop thinking of as the driver’s seat. Gregor’s the one who’s actually driving, one hand on the wheel and the other on the windowsill. Newter’s sitting just behind them, on the chair next to the side door, his feet splayed out like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Then it’s the two girls; Elle, Labyrinth, sitting silently, lost in her own world I think, and Spitfire, looking at me with honest concern in her eyes, or that could just be the glare from her gas mask.  
  
I clamber forward, overcome, and grip Spitfire by her shoulders, she was closest. I pull her towards me, a big stupid grin on my face, and shake her a little to make sure she’s real.  
  
“God, I could kiss you!”  
  
“Please don’t…”  
  
I can see her eyes behind the lenses of her gas mask, there was a hint of fear when I first grabbed her, but now she looks amused and… is that joy? I let go of her shoulders and settle myself down onto the floor, raising my head a little to rest it on the seat next to Elle. After a while, she starts to idly scratch and stroke my neck. Don’t know if it’s an automatic response, or some part of her showing through, but it’s nice all the same.  
  
“It’s good to be back.”  
  
“It’s good to have you back, you clumsy oaf,” Newter pipes up from nearer the front.  
  
“The VIP room of the Palanquin just wasn’t the same without it’s dragon on her pillow hoard.”  
  
Oh, holy fucking shit. I’ve started to forget what that _feels_ like. No more metal floors or paper-thin mattresses. No more electric shocks or cubes of uncooked beef. Order of business: ruffle Elle’s hair until she needs a professional unruffler to deal with it, cook all the beef I can with all the curry spices I can find and eat it whole, then spend an evening lying on a hoard of softness, with comatose devotchkas sprawled across me, before clambering into my tank and never leaving it again. I think I actually start to moan.  
  
“Khanivore, we need to talk about what that was back there. A lot of strange things happened after your capture, and my sources weren’t able to make much of it.”  
  
Damn you, Faultline. You Villain.  
  
Fuck, she’s right though. She has a right to know, they all do.  
  
“They figured out I wasn’t a Parahuman. Treated me as a sapient biotinker creation. One of Blasto’s.”  
  
Way to kill the mood, Sonnie. At least Elle’s still in a stroking mood.  
  
“How did they find out? They should have assumed you’re a normal Case 53, if anything.”  
  
Faultline sounds confused, and more than a little concerned.  
  
“I think it was Chevalier, back in Philadelphia. Before we ambushed him in that alleyway, I heard Myyrdin ask him about us. He said that I didn’t have powers, he was certain of it, and that he thought I was one of Blasto’s creatures. I reckon he’s a Thinker of some kind, one who can identify Parahumans.”  
  
Most of the crew are either indifferent or intrigued at that, but Spitfire looks more than a little worried. It makes sense. Most capes seem to think they can throw a rag over their face and get away with some consequence-free violence. Knowing the ‘good guys’ can sniff you out even when you’re not wearing your underwear on top of your trousers has to be a bit of a mindfuck. If Faultline’s worried, though, she doesn’t show it.  
  
“It’s possible. Certainly, doesn’t sound like the sort of powers information the PRT would publish. They do that, sometimes, to sanitize new hires. That information could be worth quite a bit, Sonnie. If I can sell it on, I’ll pass the profit on to you. But didn’t you try and correct the situation, tell them you’re human?”  
  
This is the bit I’ve been worrying about. I’m not quite so confident in my reasons now that I’m back with the crew.  
  
“I didn’t want them to find out. Far as I can tell, I’m the only person with both this brand and my memories, and, from what the PRT said, I’m the only ’53 without powers. Last thing I want is the conspiracy realizing they’ve missed one.”  
  
Faultline’s silent at that, hell, so’s everyone else.  
  
“I see…”  
  
Shit. That’s not good.  
  
“I follow your reasoning, but you need to be careful, Sonnie. Things could have gone very badly for you in there, and we wouldn’t have been able to do anything to help. Just how much of your body is still human, if you don’t mind me asking?”  
  
I don’t.  
  
“Depends how you measure it. Any DNA samples will show a collection of different genetic sources optimized to be the most efficient for building up skin, blood or bone, depending on where the sample’s taken from. My organs also have specialized DNA strands and cells. My brain’s still in here, split up across multiple points for maximum redundancy, and it’s still 100% human. That’s it.”  
  
Faultline falls back into silence, as she thinks a few things over.  
  
“I’ll have to see of there’s something I can do, just in case this happens again. Don’t worry about that, though. You’ve had a long few days, and work should be the last thing on your mind. We haven’t got any jobs lined up, and we’re all swimming in money right now, so let’s just go home and relax for a week or two.”  
  
I sigh. That sounds nice.


	36. Interlude: Nova

The lights are swirling through my mind. I’m afloat on a sea of comfortable memories, drifting silently through my own head. I’m getting more aware, but that just means I’m coming down. It’s nice, being just aware enough to feel it. Sure, the high’s good, but I think this might actually be my favorite part of this stuff. A lot of drugs feel like they’re stabbing you in the head whenever you come down, especially anything from the fucking Merchants. You’d think the ‘drug gang’ would have some good shit, but you’d be wrong.  
  
Newter’s stuff feels like you’re getting out of bed after a long night’s sleep. You don’t want to leave, but it’s because you’re comfortable, rather than addicted. So you ease yourself out gently, flowing back into your limbs until you can feel yourself again. I flutter my eyelids, blinking away the spots from the lights. The VIP room at the Palanquin isn’t exactly bright, but everything seems a little sharper after the high.  
  
I bring my hand up to rub against my eyes, forgetting for a second the work I put into my makeup. Luckily, I feel it brush against some leathery surface before that happens. Unluckily, that’s when I remember just where I decided to get high. I can feel myself getting lifted up and down gently, as this creature breathes in and out. Instinctively I look left, relaxing only when I see Mel next to me. Still out of it, still off in dreamland, but still safe. Then I look to my right, following the curve of this thing’s body. I look past armored bone and leathery skin, following the curve of its bulbous neck and tail to a wide head that ends in a vicious spike of bone.  
  
Its eyes are open. Fuck, it’s looking at me.  
  
I jump, just a little, then freeze in place. It’s a wild animal; just don’t make any sudden movements and you’ll be fine.  
  
No, it’s not an animal. It’s a Cape, and I know how to deal with them. Bunch of arrogant cocksuckers, every last one of them. They like their ‘normal’ people as background decoration. Fiercely obedient, submissive and not stealing their spotlight. Just pretend like I do when Oni Lee comes around to pick up tribute.  
  
“S-sorry. Newter said it was okay. I can move her, if you want?”  
  
If this goes bad, then I toss Mel as far as I can. I might be able to shiv the fucker in the eye, if I have enough time to get my knife.  
  
It lets out a long, slow breath and shakes its head slightly. Okay. I think that means we’re okay. Just relax, Nova. Let yourself fade into the background. It won’t hurt us as long as it has a use for us, even if that use is just as a bedwarmer. I lean back, my hands between my head, and spread myself a little more over the monster. It clearly likes us being here, so I’ll just keep it happy until Mel wakes up.  
  
Mel.  
  
Even now, I can’t stop myself from looking her up and down like she’s a piece of meat. I don’t know how she’s managed to stay so cute, so innocent, after knowing me for a year, but I love her for it. She’d do anything for me, all I’d need to do is ask. The least I can do is make her feel good, take her out to see the finer things in life, the things outside her little patch of Aryan suburbia. It won’t last, though. We’ll both be out of school soon enough, and she’ll be off to university somewhere. It’s for the best; she’s a weakness, one I can’t afford if I want to make something of myself.  
  
I mean that in the nicest possible way.  
  
Got nothing better to do till Mel wakes, and I don’t want to piss off the cape by moving too much, so I just look around the VIP room. The other freak’s still here, slimy orange skin and all. He’s talking to a couple of other girls now, probably another group that got through here on false IDs. They look more like friends than lovers, though, so they’ll cling to Newter like a bunch of horny sluts, making the freak feel normal to get a hit of the good stuff. Can’t exactly blame them for it; I’ve been them many times before.  
  
You do what you got to do to get high, and spending half an hour fawning over the greasy-skinned Cape isn’t exactly the worst thing I’ve known people to do.  
  
Bare skin brushes up against my left arm. Mel’s waking up. I roll over onto my side, holding her body against mine while running my hands through her vibrant red hair. It smells of strawberries, and passes through my fingertips like smooth silk. I press myself against the black cocktail dress that hugs her figure so well. I want the first thing she sees when she wakes up to be my face, so I just hold her as we lie together on top of a monster.  
  
Never saw this process from the outside before. I can see her eyeballs moving around behind her eyelids, her eyelashes fluttering as she moves through dreamland. I wonder what she’s seeing right now? Is it me? Just the thought of that makes me hug her closer, cradling her sleeping head against my shoulder. Eventually I start to feel her fingers brush against my chest, and I pull herself up so her head is level with mine as her eyelids flutter open.  
  
She has beautiful eyes. A rich green, more colorful than any I’ve seen before, and certainly more than any I’ve seen this close. The second her pupils widen as she recognizes me, I pull her in for a kiss, locking her lips with my own and holding her there. She’s a little groggy at first, but soon she joins in with gusto, wrapping her arms around my red dress. We just hold each other close, as the world fades away.  
  
“Yeah! Go Nove!”  
  
That fucking freak shouts from across the room, and I want nothing more than to drive my knife through his fucking skull. Mel flinches back, and her head darts wildly as she looks around the room. That orange prick. I just want to gut him, leave him bleeding out on the floor while the bottom feeders lap up his blood for their next fix. No. Can’t do that to capes, especially not ones that give away their product for free. Swallow your pride, Nova.  
  
Background decoration. Put on a false smile, and look at the cape with fake love in your eyes. Lean into their insanity, or be washed away.  
  
“Like what you see, Newter?”  
  
He laughs, and the girls on either side of him join in with their own shrill tittering. They’re probably not even faking it this time. Mel’s clammed up again, I think she’s just remembered what she fell asleep on. Speaking of, our ‘bed’ just lifted its head up, shifting me without even realizing I’m here. It lets out a short growl at Newter, before settling back down.  
  
“Alright, girl, I’ll lay off them. Seems Khanivore’s gotten mighty protective of you, Nove.”  
  
I reach out with a hand, suppressing the fear and disgust, and rub and pat the creature’s neck.  
  
“You were right, Newter, she really is just a big softie. Anyway, I really need to get Mel back home. She’s a real stepford daughter, and I can’t let her parents know I’m corrupting her.”  
  
Can’t let them know about the colour of my skin either, or the lesbian sex, or the premarital sex, probably. Maybe they don’t think it counts if it’s just two girls? Fat fucking chance. Better for Mel they never find out about me at all.  
  
“I feel ya. See you around?”  
  
I flash a smile that’s maybe more teeth than lips and stand up, taking a second to steady myself on my heels.  
  
“Course, might swing by next Tuesday, all alone.”  
  
I put emphasis on those last words, and he smiles to match. My heart isn’t in it, though. Instead I hold out a hand to Mel, and help her up from the living couch. She’s unsteady as well, so I guide her arm until it’s locked around my waist, and the pair of us start to make our way out. A few girls pass us heading the other way, clutching shot glasses with a few drops of orange liquid swirling around the bottom. I don’t look back, but I know they’re going to replace us on the creature.  
  
Doesn’t matter to me, though. The night’s still young, and we’re still at the buzzed stage of being drunk. Maybe she’ll drag me down to the boardwalk again, maybe we’ll get changed and I’ll show her around the real Brockton Bay some more, some of the areas deeper in ABB turf, where there are less soldiers on the streets.  
  
Maybe we’ll just end up fucking in a dirty alleyway. Again.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
Right now, I feel fucking invincible. Got a gun tucked away in my jacket, and four soldiers listening to my every word. Tonight, was a good night, which means I get to walk around like a Queen, with my head held high and the whole world bowing before me. Or at least the rest of the crew backing away respectfully. These streets are ours, a few blocks back from no-mans-land, so we can walk without fear of being jumped by the merchants, unless some of the tweaked-up junkies end up very lost.  
  
The warehouse is just up ahead, with Wakita smoking a cigarette outside. He’s supposed to be watching the roads, not eye-deep in his phone, but he always was a lazy shit. Maybe I can have some of the guys take him out back and beat the shit out of him. Fuck, probably not. Fucking Hisato wouldn’t like having his cousin beat to shit, and what Hisato says, goes. For now, at least.  
  
I bend down and pick a stone off the ground, ignoring the whistle from someone with more balls than sense. Instead I toss the rock right at that slack jawed idiot’s head. It hits, of course, and he flails around, struggling to put his phone away while fumbling for his gun at the same time. I storm up to him while he’s still flopping about like a dead fish, and raise my fist like I’m about to punch him in the gut.  
  
“Wakita. Fucking asshole. When you’re on watch, you fucking watch, understand?”  
  
Can’t actually hit him, not without pissing off Hisato, but he hasn’t realized that so far. Instead, the pathetic shit actually starts to beg.  
  
“I’m sorry, Nova. Please forgive me, it won’t happen again.”  
  
I lean into his face, fucking grateful for the way he’s cringing as it means he’s no longer taller than me.  
  
“You better make sure of that, shit-for brains. Keep your fucking eyes out for Merchants, Capes or Cops and we won’t have any trouble. Understand?”  
  
He mutely nods, and steps aside while I open the door to the warehouse. My four men follow me, dragging the reluctant cargo with them. I don’t look back, still can’t, even after all this time, instead giving my orders over my shoulder.  
  
“Sedate ‘em and get ‘em into one of the vans.”  
  
Sedate. Such a fucking loaded word. Doesn’t mean to use anesthesia, or anything like that. Just stick them with some H and hope they’re someone else’s problem when they come down. I fucking hate this.  
  
I hate how I have to remind myself that I can’t feel anything for them, that they just got unlucky and that if I wasn’t doing this then someone else would. The other fuckers don’t get it. They don’t have to play the honeytrap, the friendly face they’d follow into dark alleys. They don’t have to see the betrayal in their eyes. They don’t have to wonder if they could have ended up the same way, if things had gone just a little differently.  
  
But I’m here now. Part of the ABB, and I can’t be a small part. I can’t let myself slide into some scumbag’s arms, worth nothing more than the occasional fuck. I need to be more, and this is the way to do it. This is how I prove my value to the gang.  
  
They can never find Mel.  
  
Right now, it’s all about proving my value to Hisato. This is his crew, though he doesn’t deserve it, and what he says, goes. He’s a pathetic piece of shit, but that just means I can wrap him around my finger. I unzip my jacket, revealing a tank top that’s just a little too tight, and put on my fake smile. Hisato’s waiting in one of the offices, on the only chair in the room like he’s some kind of fucking warlord. I push my hatred inside, focusing on playing the part.  
  
“Hisato-sama. Got lucky tonight, found two for transport.”  
  
He smiles, as I bow low enough to ensure his eye lingers on my cleavage. Anything I can do to keep this bastard underestimating me.  
  
“Excellent work, Nova-kun. Have them drugged and made ready for transport.”  
  
Already did that, you limp-dicked bastard.  
  
“It’s already done, Hisato-sama.”  
  
Fucking hate this Jap shit, but that’s the price of business for membership in the ABB. The Azn Bad Boys, a pan-Asian empire to fight the Empire. What a fucking joke. What do you call a gang with three Jap capes, where all the captains and most of the lieutenants are Japs? Wasn’t always like this, either. I joined a Filipino gang, not this shit. We had our own cape, Kalis, and I got by bringing him the money I got from begging, then pickpocketing, then mugging. Lung burnt him to a crisp in two-thousand-seven, then told all the different gangs that we were one gang from then on.  
  
Not like any of us were going to disagree, and he does keep the Empire at bay. We’re a lot stronger together than we were apart, but it means that anyone who isn’t a Jap gets sidelined. The best jobs go to the ex-Yakuza guys who came in with Lung, fair enough, but then you get fucks like Hisato, who glide to power on the back of their fucking genes. He’s not even from Japan! He’s fucking Brooklyn scum, who came here ‘cos he got chased out of New York. I was born closer to Japan than he was, but does that count for shit?  
  
Does it fuck.  
  
Just have to work three times as hard as the other guys, do whatever I need to do to get ahead. I’ve seen what happens to the girls who fall behind, who don’t stay useful. That’s why I move behind Hisato, it’s why I start to massage his shoulders rather than wringing his neck. I’m his second in command, but I don’t think that has much to do with my actual skill.  
  
Suddenly, Hisato leans forwards as the sounds of a scuffle come through the door. One of the soldiers, one of Hisato’s I think, scrambles into the office and practically throws himself at Hisato’s feet, followed by a couple of guards who had been failing to stop him. Fucking pathetic.  
  
“Hisato-sama. They got Lung.”  
  
“What?”  
  
What?  
  
“Fucking Armsmaster took him out before he could hit the Undersiders. Some bug-bitch as well; Takuji’s crew came back covered in stings.”  
  
Fuck. This is big. Lung’s a force of nature, he fought Leviathan, for fuck sake. Without him, the whole ABB might just come crumbling down. This is really fucking big. Hisato knows it to; he shot out of his chair like a rocket.  
  
“You’re sure this is true?”  
  
He must be really losing it; his fake Jap accent’s starting to sound much more Brooklyn.  
  
“Saw the PRT cart Lung away myself.”  
  
I step around to see Hisato’s face. He’s so pale he’s practically gone grey. It looks like the whole world’s just fallen out from under him. I guess it has. He starts to mutter to himself, pressing his back against the wall.  
  
“What am I going to do? What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”  
  
He looks around the room, taking in the red-and-green jackets looking to him for answers. Except… Not all of them are looking at him. Quite a few are looking at me. Interesting.  
  
“Got to get out of here… I’ve got to get out of here!”  
  
He scrambles to his feet and makes a break for the door. I shake my head, just once, and the guy closest to the door drives his fist into Hisato’s gut, sending him to the ground where he starts to scrabble away.  
  
I need to move, now!  
  
I reach into my jacket, pulling out the heavy pistol from my belt, and put a round through his skull. The sound of the gunshot reverberates throughout the room, and the senior members of Hisato’s crew all stare at me in mute silence. No time to think, just act.  
  
“No-one’s going anywhere. You know why? Because this isn’t fucking over. The pigs can’t hold Lung. There’s no prison in the world that’ll stop the Dragon of Kyushu. And when Lung breaks out, he’s not going to be happy if you all went to shit just because he wasn’t there to change your fucking diapers. We’re the ABB. We rule this town. Bakuda and Oni-Lee are going to get Lung out, and we’re going to be ready for them. Any of you morons have a problem with that?”  
  
They don’t cheer, but I think I’ve got them, hook, line and sinker.  
  
They’re Nova’s Crew now.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
“What’s this all about?”  
  
I don’t really know the speaker, don’t know any of these people really. I’ve moved up in the world, now that I have my own crew. That means I get invited to the big meetings, with the other captains and lieutenants. I’ve made it, now all I need to worry about is keeping a lid on my crew, stopping any of them from trying what I did, and worrying about what some of the other captains might do.  
  
Oh, and getting arrested by the cops, I guess.  
  
Still, I won’t get anywhere if I don’t participate.  
  
“Only one thing it can be about; Lung’s in jail, we need to get him out.”  
  
They’ve got us all out here in a meeting room, bringing us in to be briefed one by one. It’s not normal, by any means, but these aren’t exactly normal times. Lung’s been gone a few days now, so it’s about time some of the higher-ups decided to make a move.  
  
The door opens, and a couple of mooks take in the next Lieutenant.  
  
Everyone’s trying to talk, it’s not everyday so many of the senior ABB people are in one place, but it’s not really working out. This whole city’s on edge, and the ABB is worse. Everyone knows things are about to kick off, and no-one wants to be caught short.  
  
The door opens again, and now it’s my turn. I follow the two gangers into the corridors past the office. One benefit to holding the docks is that there’s a lot of warehouses like this one just lying around. They bring me to the factory floor, where I stop dead on my feet.  
  
It’s set up like some kind of fucking hospital, with tables of surgical equipment and what looks like a massage chair at the center. None of that matters, though, because there’s a Cape in the room. Bakuda’s right there, next to the chair, standing by a metal crate. She’s dressed in Columbine chic; a long trenchcoat covered in bandoliers, with a grenade launcher hanging off her waist. I can’t see her face behind a black gas mask with glowing red eyes, but her hair has been left free.  
  
Her arms are deep in somebody’s fucking spine, and it takes me a second to connect the tattoos on the man’s back to the lieutenant who went in before me. As I watch, she takes a small metal ball from the case and stuffs it into the hole, before sowing it back up with the delicacy of a practiced surgeon.  
  
Oh fuck.  
  
She says something to her subject, but I don’t hear any of it. The two goons grab my arms with their own and start to drag me forwards, but I don’t feel any of it. This is it. This is how I die, and all I can do is beg. It’s all I have left.  
  
“Please! I’m loyal to you! I’ll do anything you want! You don’t have to do this!”  
  
The faceless mask looks at me, glowing red eyes peeling away everything I am to gaze into my very soul. When she speaks, her voice is distorted to the point of sounding almost demonic.  
  
“What I want, is for you to lie down on this table so I can put a bomb in your neck.”  
  
Oh shit. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Think, Nova. This can’t be it. You can’t stop this happening, but you can still live. What do Capes want from normal people? Submission, obedience, maybe eye candy? What can you do to stop her detonating that bomb?  
  
“Okay. I’ll do it.”  
  
She pauses at that, her mask tilting ever so slightly in confusion.  
  
“Sorry?”  
  
“I said I’ll do it. I’ll lie down on that table so you can put a bomb in my spine.”  
  
There’s a moment of horrible silence, before she lets out a horrific screech of laughter. Once it passes, she mutters a few words that I’m barely able to catch.  
  
“Fucking incredible…”  
  
Bakuda looks up at me again.  
  
“Okay, listen. You really want to prove your loyalty, or whatever this is, then do it. Get onto this table without being forced, and I won’t even put on the restraints. Get through the operation, and you get the honor of living. Try to run, and I’ll use you for testing.”  
  
I just nod; my throat’s dried up. The two mooks let go of my arms, leaving me to stagger over to the table. I force myself to move quickly, lying face down on the massage chair before I have the chance to stop myself. All I have to do now, is not move. I hear Bakuda start to hum behind me, before I feel a blade piercing the back of my neck.  
  
I try to stay as still as possible, running through old prayers in my head. Prayers I haven’t spoken since Mom died. ‘It’s not the worst thing I’ve done’, I lie to myself. ‘I just need to lie still for a minute. It won’t take long.’ ‘It’s no worse than all the other shit I’ve done to get ahead, all the people I’ve stepped on, no worse than when I spread my legs for Hisato.’  
  
I feel something pushing against my skin, and I clench my teeth against the pain. Pain flares up again and again, with each stich Bakuda puts into my neck. And then it’s over. The pain stops, and I’m practically shoved out of the seat and sent out into the street with new orders for my crew to carry out, once I’ve brought them all here so she can do the same to them.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
The city’s in flames.  
  
I was right, everything was about to boil over, but I never imagined it’d be like this. The ABB are stronger than we’ve ever been, now that Bakuda had us conscript every Asian between fifteen and fifty. Lung’s dream is truer than it ever was, but not even he would go this far to make it come true. The Capes are throwing us against everyone in the city, the Empire, the Merchants, Coil’s Mercenaries and the fucking pigs, all to buy the capes the time they need to get Lung out.  
  
Then came the bombs. We need to keep the city on edge, so Bakuda’s been dishing out these Tinkertech bombs to us. We throw them in playgrounds, at bus stations, hospitals, car parks, office buildings. Anywhere and everywhere, really. That’s what brought down the National Guard. Now the city’s become a warzone, and we’re the terrorists hiding in the rubble. Hit and run attacks, improvised explosive devices, even a few snipers to shoot anyone who pokes their head up in the wrong places.  
  
This is how the ABB dies. We all know it, those of us who were in the ABB before this started. Lung never tried anything this crazy, and for good reason. There’s no surviving this, not for any of us. If the Army doesn’t kill us, then the other gangs will. But we can’t even stop, can’t show anything except one-hundred-percent loyalty to the cause or she’ll detonate the bombs in our skulls. The ABB belongs to Bakuda now, every one of us. Makes my coup against Hisato look pathetic by comparison.  
  
Of course, the Lieutenants and Captains have to be just as loyal, but we also have to look out for disloyalty in our men. Bakuda gave every one of us a gift when we brought our men in to be implanted. I can kill any of them, at any time, if they show even the slightest sign of disloyalty. I have to kill them, because she’ll kill me if she realizes I’m not punishing them for their disloyalty. She’s made fanatics of us all, overnight.  
  
That’s why I’m hiding on the top floor of an office complex, with ten gang members and thirty conscripts. They’re all armed with whatever we could find. Some have pistols, but a lot of them just have clubs or bats. I’ll be ordering them to charge if the building gets breached, and I’ll have to kill them if they don’t. The gang members, all that’s left of Nova’s Crew, are armed with fancy rifles we liberated from an Empire storehouse, some overengineered German shit.  
  
I sit around, waiting for the signal, surrounded by slave-soldiers.  
  
Mel, wherever you are, I hope you’re okay. You shouldn’t have ended up with a bomb in her neck; you’re in the suburbs, and we’ve only conscripted the Asians. You can’t see me, never again. I’ve already ignored ten calls from you. I can’t let them get to you too.  
  
Gunfire, coming from the street below. The police are raiding the building opposite, and the National Guard are there to protect them from us. The gunfire is coming from the decoy crew on the other side of the block. Their job is almost suicide, but almost suicide is still better odds than certain death. I stand up, and forty people stand with me. Walking over to the window, I rack the slide on my grenade launcher. I only have the one bomb left, and I’ve been ordered to make it count.  
  
At the window, I can see the green-camouflaged soldiers spread out on the street below, with the occasional black uniform of the BBPD among them. They’re making short work of the decoys, as expected; gunning them down in a hail of bullets. There are a couple of guys on the roof of their armored cars, firing what looks like an automatic grenade launcher that shreds our people apart into misty clouds of blood and gore. I raise my left arm into the air, looking to my left and right to take in a long line of guns aimed out of the window.  
  
When I drop it, the sound of gunfire is almost deafening, and I can hear my ears ringing in my head. I clamp my teeth together, and bring the grenade launcher up to my shoulder, aiming for the center of the soldiers while they’re still panicked by our ambush.  
  
I fire, and there’s a slight thwumping noise before the shooting stops, and a few of my men throw up out the window. I shouldn’t look, but I need to see what happened.  
  
The street has been warped and twisted into shapes that physically hurt to look at. The front of one of the armored cars has ballooned out to an enormous size, while the other has almost shrunk in on itself. The people are worse. Some shriveled and hunched, others stretched to impossible lengths. There’s a single moment of silence, one that appears to stretch forever, before the soldiers start to scream. They’re still alive down there.  
  
I drop the grenade launcher to the floor, desperately trying to stop myself from hyperventilating. I can’t show weakness in front of the men. I can’t be anything less than the perfect soldier of the ABB. I cant-  
  
What have I done?


	37. Insurgency: 6.01

I’m back home, but it doesn’t feel like a victory.  
  
Things have kicked off while we were gone; some terror campaign conducted by the Azn Bad Boys, stupid fucking name. The whole city’s afraid, and that fear has seeped through into the Palanquin. Not entirely, we’re more robust than that, but enough to be noticeable. Faultline’s always coming and going in costume or in disguise, and, whenever she is here, she’s usually on her phone. Right now, information is key. Further into the city, there’re running battles between the police and the gangs, and army units have been brough in to restore order and bust some heads.  
  
It was never really safe for us to be out and about, we are all wanted criminals after all, but the local capes saw us as a low priority. There are far worse than us in the city, and arresting us here isn’t worth the cost of pissing off the third largest cape group here. It’s a strange fact about this place; every one of the gangs outnumbers us in manpower, but the people here don’t care as much about manpower as they do about capes. We have six capes; the local Protectorate has seven.  
  
Those numbers are a little misleading; the individual members of the Protectorate here are stronger than any one of us, ‘cept Labyrinth of course, but they place a far higher emphasis on capes than on any normal person. A lot of what Newter or Gregor does could be recreated with anesthetic gas, and I could be replaced by a bus or an armoured car or something, but because we’re capes, we’re suddenly set above everyone else. Maybe I see it because I’m not a cape, haven’t grown up in a world where everyone just accepts that the only thing that can deal with a cape is another cape.  
  
I lived in a world of bitek, where people could improve themselves if they had the cash, or the backing. Tweak yourself to have a longer lifespan, sharper cheekbones, bigger tits or subcutaneous armour and hidden bone-knives. People like that, the Spetsnaz or razorgirls or the gene-tailored rich, have the means to set themselves above humanity, but it’s not just some random thing. It’s earned, through hard work, hard research and cold hard cash. Parahumans are special, but they’re not the be all and end all. Maybe that’s just me.  
  
Anyway, things are a little different now. With the army on the streets, and about a dozen capes in from out of town, things have got a little less safe for us. Everyone’s trigger happy right now, even the other gangs, and the last thing they need is to see known parahuman mercenaries on the street. So, we stay indoors, stay out of sight, and hope this all blows over before things go to shit.  
  
We’re flush for cash right now, though. It’s the Palanquin that’s suffering. The army’s put out a curfew, arresting anyone out on the streets after six, so the club scene has been killed overnight. Most of the staff are gone, back home with their families, except for a few of the bouncers who’ve been given some of our rifles and put on double pay. Apparently, it’s different if the person using lethal force is a ‘normal’, but really the threat of lethal force will probably be more than enough.  
  
What all that means is that we’re stuck here, with nothing to do. Every now and then, the sound of a detonation will echo to us over the rooftops, but nothing’s got close so far. Shit reminds me of the Neo-Luddite movement, bunch of anti-progress pricks bombing gene-therapy clinics, hospitals, or bitek companies. We were stuck indoors then too, and I was young enough to feel antsy about it without really understanding why. Lucky they burnt themselves out before Beastie Baiting got real big. Last thing we needed to worry about was a bunch of backwards murderers coming after our heads. It was hard enough just to make ends meet.  
  
To make things worse, I can’t even see the sky out the window. A fog’s rolled in, so all I can see above the red-grey of the buildings is an endless field of dark grey clouds, threatening rain, but so far unwilling to commit. The TV’s on, off to my left, but it’s been set to the news channel and I can’t be bothered to change it. I also can’t be bothered to watch an endless string of casualty reports or bomb scares or interviews with terrified survivors.  
  
But I can’t just stand around doing nothing, or rather, I don’t want to, so I step back from the window, take one look around the empty living room, before pacing off down the corridors on all fours, poking my head through the open doors as I pass them. Gregor’s gone out for some food for lunch, so his room is empty and I don’t want to intrude on his space. He keeps his place nice and clean, with a fair bit of wooden furniture and actual paper books.  
  
Newter’s room is the opposite. The malchick himself is sitting on his bed, his greasy hands on the controller for some sort of games console and a pair of headphones over his ears. Most of his furniture is wipe clean, plastic or metal, and his sheets have been fitted with plastic linings beneath the fabric to stop his hallucinogenic from seeping through. Like a toddler who can’t stop wetting the bed. He waves at me, but I can see he’s distracted by his game, so I nod and step back out into the corridor.  
  
That leaves one option, though I was probably going to end up here anyway. I push open the door to the girls’ room, fiddling a bit to try and work the handle with my claws, and slink in. Emily’s lying down on her bed, her head near the foot and her feet kicking the air behind her. She’s flicking through some fashion magazines, dozens more piled up in heaps around her, whilst blasting music from the two speaker systems on either side of a bulky laptop. The music’s coming from CDs, great bulky disks that are stored on two massive shelves. She’s got dozens of them already, and her collection is growing every week, but there’s still only a few hundred songs in all that space.  
  
“Sonnie. Bored again?”  
  
I grin at her, before curling up in the middle of the floor, my head resting on top of my claws. Labyrinth’s sitting in the corner of the room, cross-legged on the floor and staring at the walls. I reach out, gently, and move her so that she’s leaning against my body. She doesn’t resist.  
  
“Always. So, what’s hot right now?”  
  
She laughs a little. More of a scoff, come to think of it.  
  
“Cape fashion is still all about skintight spandex under a cropped jacket. Flared pants are back in style, apparently. Not that I’d ever be seen dead in them. Pantsuits too, which just make you look old. Um… Rhinestone jackets, combat boots and shaving the side of your head, apparently.”  
  
“Of course. That look is timeless. Never goes out of style.”  
  
She looks up at me, horror in her eyes, peering through her neatly kept brown hair and over her fashionable yellow blouse.  
  
“You didn’t…”  
  
“’Course I did. Black leather jacket with metal studs, patches from biker gangs, and the word ‘Predators’ written across the back. Ratty jeans with plenty of holes, a thin white tank top that almost fit. Hardly ever wore shoes, though. Hardly ever wore a bra, either.”  
  
A magazine hits me in the face, music this time. Apparently, boybands are back in vogue. I raise myself up to look at the prude, whose cheeks have turned an impressive shade of red.  
  
“You’ve gotta get past this uptight early-cen morality, and learn to show a little skin. You know, we had a surgeon working for us back then. Ivrina, lovely girl, lovely at her job and lovely on the eyes. She wore nothing up top but tattoos and a small jacket that just about covered her nips. Sometimes I think the crowds loved her almost as much as they did me.”  
  
Emily blushes again, before leaning over the edge of the bed.  
  
“Did you have… tattoos?”  
  
“You make it sound so dirty, like you’re asking if I had a criminal record. Yeah, I had ink, much better ink than the shit you can get here as well. Had a serpent coiling around my right arm, with the head swallowing my right eye. Another head on my chest as well, right where it could be seen above the top. My left side was all circuitry, from my foot to my face. The real kicker is that it’d light up under the right light. The ink was bioluminescent, and the whole thing glowed blue.”  
  
“Sounds badass.”  
  
Emily grins at me, and I return the favour.  
  
“You bet ‘yer arse it was. I’d do it again here, but they don’t have the right ink. Besides, I’d feel a little dishonest inking up this body.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well it’s not really mine. No, don’t look at me like that. Look, apart from an accident of birth, your body is entirely yours. You decide how to shape it through exercise or hairstyles or accessories. But this body was a team effort, and I put in the least of the Predators. They were the bioengineers, the surgeon and the hardware specialist who put me together, I just brought the killer instinct.”  
  
Emily looks a little puzzled, and she rolls herself up into a cross-legged position, her magazines going ignored.  
  
“Maybe. But don’t you think that putting your own spin on it might make it feel more like it’s yours?”  
  
Dredging up old wounds, that. Not that she’d know.  
  
“Moved past all that stuff years ago. When you picture yourself in your head, I reckon you look much the same as you do now. It’s the same with me. Been in this body for about a year or so, now, and it’s what I see in my head. I got over my old body long before its skull got caved in.”  
  
She looks a little sick, and I realize that I’ve never actually told any of them how I ‘died’. Before I can fit my foot even further in my mouth, there’s a knock at the door and Gregor comes in with a plastic bag.  
  
“Sonnie. Emily, I have sandwiches.”  
  
He pulls a packet out of the bag and tosses it over to Emily, who catches it in her hands. As she unwraps the prepackaged meal, Gregor kneels down beside me and coaxes Elle into eating hers. The kisa’s bites are slow, but she’s managing to get it down. I smile at her, and lean over to pat her head. I would ruffle her hair, but I don’t want to mess it up when she’s not lucid enough to set it right.  
  
Gregor turns to me.  
  
“I also have the ingredients you asked for.”  
  
“Sweet!”  
  
I carefully move Elle off me, sitting her back down at the foot of the bed, and hook Gregor’s carrier bag over a couple of claws, peering in at the contents.  
  
“I didn’t know you could cook.”  
  
“I was a roadie long before I was a pit fighter. Got used to cooking in the back of our little caravan, so I’ve been dying to use your kitchen since I first saw it.”  
  
Gregor’s lips have slightly curled up at the sides, his version of a cocky grin.  
  
“So why not cook before now? You’ve been here long enough.”  
  
“Well, yeah, but I’m also incredibly lazy. Still, I got a craving that I just can’t deny. See you Emily. Remember what I said.”  
  
Emily throws another magazine at me, but in a good-natured way. I squeeze my way out of her room, clutching my precious cargo to my chest all the way to the kitchen. The Crew doesn’t actually cook our own food that often, it’s more when the mood strikes us. Usually I get by with some meat done up by one of the Palanquin staff, but I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic for some good old British grub recently.  
  
Preparation is the first move, rolling out a few ingredients onto a chopping board. Two onions, some garlic, a few chilies and a whole lemon. Slice some, dice others and soon I have various heaps of food just waiting to be made into a masterpiece. I cut the chicken with a different knife and onto a plate, no point in accidentally giving myself food poisoning, and look over the rest of the ingredients.  
  
A frying pan is put on the boil, and in goes the solid half of two tins of coconut milk. Then it’s turmeric, cloves, garam masala and paprika until the coconut paste turns a healthy orange. I throw on the chicken, and let the scent of the frying spices waft up into my nostrils until the chicken is almost done. More smells come with the chilis, onions and garlic, and I get another reminder of how grateful I am that this body has a sense of smell.  
  
In go the rest of the coconut milk, the chopped lemon, and a tin of plum tomatoes for good measure. This is the good bit, where I can step away from the pan and just let it simmer for a good twenty minutes. I can just lean back and relax, knowing that I’ll have food in a bit. Gregor comes in after a while, to marvel at my creation, and we swap recipe ideas. He can’t handle heat, apparently, but he knows a few good salty meals, which is almost as good.  
  
Eventually it’s done, which really means I’m done looking at it, so I swirl in a bit of cream to get that perfect orange colour and pour my freshly made tikka masala into a bowl. It’s steaming hot, and I bite down the urge to just pour it all down my gullet. This deserves something a little classier than that. I root around the drawers until I find a serving spoon that could serve as a normal spoon for someone my size, then head for the pillow pile.  
  
I’ve just gotten settled in, and started spooning chicken into my mouth, when Mr Abernathy, the Palanquin’s manager, comes up the stairs. He nods to me, all poise and elegance in his neatly pressed suit. Doesn’t matter to him that the city’s going to hell in a handbasket.  
  
“Good evening, Sonnie. Is Miss Melanie in?”  
  
I grin at the casual avoidance of our boss’s unfortunate surname.  
  
“I think she’s in her office. What’s up?”  
  
“A gentleman here to see her.”  
  
And with that he’s off, up the stairs into our living quarters. He returns a few minutes later, followed by Faultline. She’s dressed in full rig, armour and helmet, and I look up at her from my fluffy bed.  
  
“Something the matter, boss? I’m not giving up the meal, but I can loom in the background while eating it.”  
  
I can’t see her mouth, but I think she’s grinning beneath the mask.  
  
“No need, if this is what I think it is. Just enjoy your food.”  
  
I settle back down, savoring the kick of the chilies on my tongue. Get a little more of a kick when I realize I forgot to take the lemons out but, after a moment’s thought, I eat down the sour fruit with the rest of it. It’s all flavor, and that’s all I’m after here.  
  
Abernathy didn’t go down with her, instead peering into my bowl. I figure he deserves an explanation.  
  
“It’s an old curry recipe from back home. I was in a bit of a nostalgic mood, and had a craving for spice.”  
  
He smiles, his pearly white teeth contrasting with his deep brown skin.  
  
“I trust you can keep it off the upholstery. The cleaning staff have all gone home.”  
  
I grin right back at him.  
  
“You know me, Franklin. I’m the picture of grace.”  
  
He smiles, and we share a little laugh at the blatant lie. Still, I do pay more attention to where the food goes. He does enough here without me adding to the plate.  
  
“How are you holding up, with all this? Figured you’d want to be back with your family.”  
  
Another smile, though it looks a little strained.  
  
“They’re safe, out in the suburbs and well behind the military cordon. I’d say I’m here because of the double pay, but in truth I’ve put a lot of work into the Palanquin, and I’d like to do what I can to ensure it’s still standing.”  
  
The conversation peters off, not much more to say, and he disappears off into the club somewhere. Faultline comes back up barely a minute later, looking over a piece of paper. She glances up to me, and spots the unasked question.  
  
“We’ve been invited to a meeting tomorrow, with every villain in the city.”  
  
Well shit. This should be interesting.


	38. Insurgency: 6.02

It’s easier to see how much the city’s changed, out on the streets. The roads are a lot quieter, and foot traffic has dropped off almost completely. Every business we pass has a hastily scrawled sign outlining new opening hours to fit in with the government-imposed curfew, or it just says that they’re closed until further notice. The people are lost, huddling inside or moving about with their heads tucked into their shoulders. No one wants to draw attention to themselves, not with the ABB supposedly ‘conscripting’ any Asian out on the streets.  
  
News has come in that Lung got broken out of prison. Never really paid much attention to the man myself, but the way people around here talk about him you’d think a second Armada storm had come to town. Faultline thought the bombings might slow down once he got free, something about him being less of a loose cannon, but instead nothing much has changed. In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.  
  
All that means is that we’re stuck in the back of the van, again, trying to find a way through the city that doesn’t bring us too close to any streets blocked off by rubble, or by the ABB, or by the army. There’s no way we can miss all of them, but we can at least avoid the worst of it by skirting the edge of the more secure areas, the places past the army lines but close enough to be patrolled. It means we pass a few armoured vehicles every now and then, mostly bomb disposal teams in green or grey investigating tips and evacuating streets.  
  
Still, this isn’t the worst of it. Not by a long shot. Faultline told me that the ABB held the Docks, until they started this big push of theirs, so most of the fighting is going on in abandoned areas. It’s a proper warzone there, whereas all we have to worry about here is being spotted as a gang of marauding villains, while the civilians can almost continue their lives as per usual, as long as they don’t look at the soldiers. They haven’t even closed the shopping center.  
  
Somer’s Rock is on the boundary between the city and the suburbs, in a cluster of low-rise buildings supporting the kind of businesses that seem to rise and fall with the tide. Small corner shops selling groceries as cheap as they can, electronics shops that get by selling fireworks to kids, and batteries to adults. There’s the occasional specialist shop that’s just too niche for the main strip, selling lightbulbs or musical instruments or some such nonsense, and a few of those weird arty shops that sell tat. Not really sure why I’d want an enormous terracotta cat, or a pink deckchair, but congrats on following your dream, I guess?  
  
Somer’s Rock is just another one of these small businesses, sandwiched between a nail bar that probably gets by on slave labour and a boarded-up shop that, if the faded sign is anything to go by, might once have been a video rental place. Whatever the fuck that is.  
  
The pub itself has bars on the windows, but that’s not exactly uncommon around here, and a lick of peeling green paint on the woodwork, with the name of the pub written in yellowing paint that might once have been white. There’s a car pulling up in front of the place as we round the corner, with a stick thin feller in a skintight black suit stepping out. It pulls away, leaving the man in black to step into the pub alone. We don’t have a chauffeur, so Faultline has to pull up into a parking space before we all get out. Wouldn’t do to make anyone suspicious of the place through illegal parking.  
  
I stretch myself out before stepping in, eager to enjoy this brief taste of fresh air. If the meeting goes right, then I might get to enjoy some more soon; Faultline is damn near convinced that this meeting was called to either get the ABB to tone it down a notch, or coordinate a force to bring them down ourselves. Seems the gangs don’t like the Bay being under the spotlight. Bad for business, I guess.  
  
I’m the last of the Crew to step into the bar, following behind Spitfire as she watches over Labyrinth. It takes my eyes a second to adjust to the lower light, but eventually I can make out the inside of the pub. The wooden floor and the long bar have been stained an even grey colour, and my claws lift off flecks of resin as I pace along. The tablecloths are done up in the same rich dark green as Great Western Rail, and the whole place is lit by cozy yellow lights that give everything a murky atmosphere.  
  
It’s just like home.  
  
Used to love places like this, even if we moved away from them when we hit the big leagues. A little hole-in-the-wall pub is just what I would need after spending the day fetching and carrying for the Banshees. Places like this never drew in the tourists or the townies, so the only people you’d see were the regulars; the real grafters who came here after a day of proper work to shoot the shit over a strong pint before going home for the evening. They loved to swap stories, and the ones who were old enough to remember a time before the religious renaissance always liked to talk to me about Baiting.  
  
I remember this one fellow in a pub in Newcastle. The guy must have been ancient, over a hundred at least, and he had his own chair set in one corner of the place, with his own cushion to sit on. He drove this outrageous sports car, again with a few modifications to let him reach the pedals, and he’d been coming to the same pub for his lunch for decades at least. He knew everyone there, and made an effort to talk the ear off anyone who came in.  
  
I can’t remember his name, but I remember what he told me. See, we got chatting. He didn’t care that I was a punk with bitek tattoos, or that I made a living working with Beasties, we just spoke about anything and everything. He told me about what it was like to see the first man to walk on the moon, crammed into the one house on his street with a tv, while a grainy grey man on a grainy grey background stepped off a ladder onto a grey expanse of soil, and walked off into the great unknown. He told me how he watched as Clavius Base was established in the Sea of Tranqulity, back in ‘20, and he remembered his grandkids not understanding why he was crying. He cried again, in ’55, when he watched the handover ceremony between the UN and the new Lunar Republics.  
  
This place stinks of beer and cigarette smoke, the staff are dressed down and polishing tall beer glasses. The seats are worn and frayed, and the paint might be chipped and faded, but someone loves this place. Someone cares enough to keep it going, no matter if they get customers or not. It really does remind me of home.  
  
Of course, that just makes the differences all the more noticeable. For starters, the waitress here is dressed up like one of those women in American Diners, which just offends my sensibilities. The supervillains don’t help either. They’re scattered about the room, glowering at each other in the way only supervillains can. The setup seems clear enough to me; the teams sitting around the edge of the room with the leaders around a table in the center.  
  
Hookwolf’s sitting at the bar, a glass of something tall in his hand. He nods at me when he spots me, and I return the courtesy. That must mean the other capes behind him are also Empire, though I don’t recognize any of them from my trip. I’d thought Hookwolf was the boss when I first met him, but he’s not the one at the table. Instead, there’s a bulky suit of armour topped with a crown of blades sitting in a wooden chair that looks like it’s barely supporting his weight.  
  
So, this must be Kaiser. He certainly looks the part. There’s a woman sitting just behind him, in a white costume that’s glowing ever so slightly. Her eyes and hair are glowing too, much to bright to get a clear picture, but the rest of her is shapely enough. She must be Kaiser’s Jessica. Wonder if he’s shagging the two blonde twins as well?  
  
The other Empire capes are a couple, dressed in matching costumes, one in grey and the other in black. They’ve both got drinks in front of them, a pint of beer for him and a red wine for her, but neither are touching them  
  
If Kaiser’s gone for a show of strength, then the other feller’s gone for the opposite. He’s alone at the other end of the ‘High Table’, with no other capes at his back. It’s a declaration of confidence, rather than strength. Unless the group in the corner work for him, but you’d think they’d be sitting closer if that were the case.  
  
On the way to our table, Faultline brings us closer to that other group. It’s not the quickest route, but I’m sure she has her reasons. This group doesn’t share the Empire’s views on costume coordination, that’s for sure; two blokes, one swole and the other a twig, dressed in motorcycle leathers and some kind of frilly fop shirt respectfully. The rest are all girls, one dressed like a woman after my own heart, in tatty clothes, a leather jacket and a bulldog mask, while the next is wearing tight dark grey spandex with a full-face mask and panels of black armour.  
  
Faultline’s staring at the last one, a girl in a skintight black and purple outfit that would be cute if she wasn’t obvious jailbait. Doesn’t help that she’s staring daggers at the boss, her face scrunched up like she’s sucking on a lemon. I don’t know what her beef is with Faultline, but I do know it’s important to rep the side, so I let my bladed tail drift just a little too close to her face as we make our way to our own booth. As I curl up at the foot of the booth, I watch her eyes follow Faultline as she steps up to the High Table, before fixing me in an angry gaze that turns into confusion after a while. Then her lip curls up into a manic grin, and she turns away to snip at her team.  
  
I’m half expecting her to step up to the high table as well, but instead the motorcycle fetishist makes his way up to sit halfway between Faultline and tall dark and skinny. Just what does this child have against the boss?  
  
The waitress comes up to our table, and sets a pad down in front of Gregor, who asks us what we all want to drink. Spitfire goes for an orange juice, Newter immediately goes for some horrid cocktail, which Gregor shoots down immediately, before settling on a coke. Gregor and me both go for pints of whatever’s on tap, and he writes our order down on the pad before handing it over to the waitress.  
  
Bit of an odd way to go about it, but maybe this is how Americans think pubs work. It’s weird enough that we don’t just order everything at the bar.  
  
“What’s that girl’s beef with the boss?”  
  
Gregor looks up at me.  
  
“Who, Tattletale?”  
  
Sounds about right. Newter’s the one who answers, though.  
  
“She keeps trying to one-up Faultline. They got into a little spat a while ago, before we picked up Labyrinth.”  
  
Gregor picks up the slack.  
  
“She needles Faultline whenever the two meet. She’s a Thinker who’s very good at reading people, and she likes to use her power to snip at people.”  
  
Seems a little petty to me, but I don’t say any more as another group of villains come through the door. They immediately set me on edge, and it looks like I’m not the only one. They’re a real fucking mess, obviously off their heads on something. The ‘boss’ is all dreadlocks and rotted teeth, with some skank hanging off his arm dressed in next to nothing, though all that does is expose a stick thin figure with track marks running down her arms. The last guy is literally a pile of garbage, so I guess they deserve props for keeping a consistent theme?  
  
Fuckers remind me so much of those Estate bastards that I just want to start eviscerating people.  
  
Seems I’m not the only one; when dreads moves to take his seat, Kaiser kicks it across the room with his power. They argue, the tweaker swearing like a sailor and shouting at the motorcycle guy. Faultline pipes up in his defense, pointing out that his crew have apparently hit the ABB hard recently. Not bad, especially for teens.  
  
Eventually, the junkie stomps off to a booth with his girl, like a fucking baby. Still not pissed enough to actually storm out, are you?  
  
“I’ll be taking a chair, I think.”  
  
The new voice is a surprise to almost everyone, and he strides into the bar like he owns the place. He certainly looks the part, in a finely made red and black costume with a top hat that makes him look like a circus ringmaster. His teammates are all dressed in similarly fine costumes, also done up in red and black. They’re the colours of the Empire rank and file, but top hat has brown skin, so that can’t be right.  
  
They look more like a circus troupe, anyway. They even have some kind of hairless gorilla thing, walking alongside a girl in shapely black armour with a sun motif. The servitor, or more likely a Case-53, has four arms, and is dressed in its own little red and black outfit. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Newter’s mouth widening in a grin.  
  
“Say one word, and I’ll nail you to the wall.”  
  
“Don’t worry about me, I was just going to talk fashion with Spitfire.”  
  
Spitfire giggles, betraying me, and I flash a smile to the gorilla thing. After all, we freaks have to stick together. It smiles back at me, more than a little uncertain, before padding off to a booth with the rest of its gang.  
  
“The Travelers, yes?” The anorexic crime lord spoke, “You’re not local.”  
  
“You could call us nomadic. What was happening here was too interesting to pass up, so I decided we’d stop by for a visit.”  
  
As he bows, actually bows, several thoughts run through my head.  
  
There’s no way he just happened upon this meeting; Faultline received a message at the Palanquin, and I’ll bet the others here all got a message through established channels. Someone set this up, and that same person must have known that the Travelers were in town. None of us knew who they were, the Empire capes looked just as confused as everyone else, so that leaves one person.  
  
I elbow Gregor, and ask who the skinny guy is. This must be his show of force. Kaiser might have the local talent, but Coil, fits with the snake motif, can pull people in from out of town.  
  
Trickster introduced himself and took a seat at the table while that was running through my head, his team sitting themselves down between us and the teens. He’s put his feet up on the table, but nobody seems to mind.  
  
At the opposite end of the table to Kaiser, Coil steeples his fingers and speaks.  
  
“That should be everyone. Seems Lung won’t be coming, though I doubt any of us are surprised, given the subject of tonight’s discussion.”  
  
“The ABB,” Kaiser replies, the two ‘heads’ of the table facing off against each other.  
  
“Thirty-five individuals confirmed dead and over a hundred hospitalized in this past week. Armed presence on the streets. Ongoing exchanges of gunfire between ABB members and the combined forces of the police and military. They have raided our businesses and bombed places where they think we might operating. They have seized our territories, and there’s no indication they intend to stop anytime soon,”  
  
Must suck to have territory and businesses to worry about. Makes me wonder why they all bother, when there’s so much money in mercenary work.  
  
“It _is_ inconvenient.”  
  
Kaiser’s downplaying this.  
  
“They’re being reckless.”  
  
Ah, Faultline. I’ve heard that tone from you before, outside a warehouse in Ohio. Truly recklessness is the worst of sins in your eyes, and it seems Coil agrees.  
  
“Which is the real concern. The ABB can’t sustain this. Something will give, they will self-destruct sooner or later, and they will likely cease to be an issue. Had things played out differently, we could look at this as a good thing. Our problem is that the actions of the ABB are drawing attention to our fair city. Homeland security and military forces are establishing a temporary presence to assist in maintaining order. Heroes are flocking to the city to support the Protectorate in regaining control of matters. It is making business difficult.”  
  
Mototcycle helmet joins in the discussion.  
  
“Bakuda is at the center of this. Lung may be the leader, but everything hinges on the girl. She ‘recruited’ by orchestrating raids of people’s homes while they slept, subduing them, and implanting bombs in their heads. She then used those bombs to coerce her victims into kidnapping more. No less than three hundred in total, now. Every single one of her soldiers knows that if they don’t obey, Bakuda can detonate the bombs. All of them are willing to put their lives on the line, because the alternatives are either certain death or watching their loved ones die for their failure. Taking her down is our ultimate goal, but she’s rigged her bombs to go off the second her heart stops, so it’s a little more complicated than a simple assassination.”  
  
He reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket, and starts handing out more of those bulky CDs to the people around the table.  
  
“She videotaped the ambush she pulled on my group a week ago and left it behind when she ran. I’ve made copies. Maybe you’ll find it useful for getting a better understanding of her.”  
  
Well it certainly won’t make for entertaining viewing, that’s for sure. Never thought I’d be worrying about putting this body up against bombs, but here we are.  
  
Coil speaks up again once everyone’s pocketed the tapes. His own is still on the table; the downside of skintight spandex.  
  
“So. We’re in agreement? The ABB cannot be allowed to continue operating.”  
  
Nods and murmurs flow around the room. Even Dreadlocks manages a slight head movement.  
  
“Then I suggest we establish a truce. Not just everyone here, but between ourselves and the law. I would contact authorities and let them know that until this matter is cleared up, our groups will restrict our illegal activity to only what is absolutely essential to our business, and we will enforce the same for those doing business in our territories. That would let police forces and military focus entirely on the ABB. There would be no violence, infighting between our groups, grabs for territory, thefts or insults. We band together with those we can tolerate for guaranteed victory, and we ignore those we cannot cooperate with.”  
  
Faultline leans forwards, making to speak. Not entirely sure what she’s going for here.  
  
“Just saying my group won’t be getting directly involved in this without a reason. We won’t be going after the ABB unless they get in my way or someone pays my rates. It’s the only workable policy when you’re a cape for hire. And just so we’re clear, if it’s the ABB paying, my team’s going to be on the other side of things.”  
  
Ah. So that’s her ploy. Not siding with the ABB; like Faultline said, they’re reckless and she considers recklessness a capital offence. No, this is about money, as it always is. All these gangs are going to be chipping in to the fight gratis, out of the kindness of their black hearts.  
  
“Unfortunate, but you and I can talk after this meeting is done. I’d prefer to keep matters simple. You’re okay with the other terms?”  
  
“Keeping on the down-low, not kicking up a fuss with other groups? That’s status quo with my group anyways.”  
  
And just like that, Faultine has kindly made sure that the only people in the city who’ll be turning a profit from this war, are us. She really is magnificent at this stuff.  
  
Coil asks the Empire and the teens, both of whom agree to a truce. I guess nobody cares about the junkies. The Tricksters join in, for no real reason. There’s barely any profit here, certainly not enough to hold the attention of some self-described ‘nomads.’ I certainly know that if I was travelling the country looking for places to commit crime, I wouldn’t head to the city with an armed uprising.  
  
Still, that’s everything settled, apart from our payment. Hell hath no fury like a villain scorned, and we’re going to come down on the ABB like a ton of bricks.  
  
This is going to be fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue for this chapter was borrowed from Hive 5.01. The aim of this chapter was not to show a different meeting at Somer's Rock, but the same meeting through a different perspective.


	39. Insurgency - 6.03

“Then that’s our major piece of business concluded tonight. Anything else before we go our separate ways? Offers, announcements, grievances?”  
  
Coil’s bringing the meeting to a close. That’s rather telling. Kaiser might have brought the biggest show of force, but it’s Coil who’s been controlling the flow of things. He was the first to speak, he was the first to ‘recognize’ the Travellers, he outlined the problem and suggested the solution. He’s the one who offered to foot the bill for us, not Kaiser. I don’t doubt that Kaiser could afford our rates, but he’s as old fashioned as his fascist beliefs. He sees things in terms of strength in battle; he brought the most soldiers, the biggest show of force, and in his eyes that’s all it takes to control the flow of the meeting. But Coil brought soldiers too, hidden in plain sight, and he’s about to buy six more.  
  
“I’ve got a complaint.”  
  
Hookwolf. He seems pissed off, wicked curved blades sprouting from his back and moving around his skin like an iron aura. Was wondering what his power is. Seems the teens have pissed him off; he’s glaring at them with open contempt in his eyes.  
  
The leader of the Undersiders reacts in kind, darkness pooling around him and bulking up his silhouette. Neither are about to fight; this is just a classic dick-measuring contest. Strange that Hookwolf isn’t looking at him though, instead he’s focused on one of the lackeys. Can’t quite figure out which one from this angle.  
  
“The crazy one, Hellhound, she-”  
  
“Bitch,” the crazy one speaks, more of a growl really. “Only the panty-ass heroes call me Hellhound. It’s Bitch.”  
  
“Don’t fucking care. You attacked my business. Set your fucking dog on my customers. Lucky I wasn’t there, whore.”  
  
Well, well, well. From the look of the motorcycle fetishist, it seems his Bitch slipped her leash. What’s the matter, kid? Can’t control your own gang? Actually, which gang even is this? I whisper the question to Gregor while Hookwolf and Shadows have their little argument.  
  
“The Undersiders,” comes the response. “Small time thieves. Attacking the Empire directly is unusual for them.”  
  
So, they’ve bitten off more than they can chew, or at least one of them has. Speaking of, ‘Bitch’ pipes up, almost speaking over her boss. Strike one for team discipline.  
  
“You mean give you a warning I’m coming. That’s the dumbest fucking thing I ever heard. Just so you know, moving to a different neighborhood won’t be good enough. You open up another dogfighting ring, I’ll be visiting that one too.”  
  
Oh. So that’s what she did. I can see why Hookwolf’s so pissed now; that ring means a lot to him. Not sure how I feel about it, to be honest. On the one hand, it was nice to know that there was something here I could recognize, something that reminded me of home, even if I wasn’t going to head back there. Spend so much of your life in places like that, and you’re bound to miss them. On the other hand, it’s no skin off my back if someone wants to go all gaga on the Nazis.  
  
There’s a shifting of metal as Kaiser leans forwards, jumping in to the conversation and holding the biker to account over his goon’s actions. I can’t bring myself to care about their argument; it’s just Kaiser trying to defend his stake in this meeting, utterly unaware that Coil’s already swept it away. It’s not clever, the way he’s exploiting such an obviously uncoordinated team. It’s blindingly bloody obvious, in fact. Darkness can’t lead his team, but Kaiser doesn’t exactly gain much from undermining a group of small-time hoods, even if they do have information on the ABB.  
  
Shadows rallies, trying his best to gain back some level of control.  
  
“It’s not so unusual for a cape to have a pet issue. You should know that as much as anyone. How would your people react if you forbid them from harassing or hurting gays, Kaiser?”  
  
Swing and a miss there, mate. I almost feel bad for him. Kaiser’s committed to a confrontation now, it’s all he knows, and the Undersiders’ attempts to defuse the situation aren’t going to do jack to stop it. Kaiser has an uncontrollable Lieutenant as well, unless Hookwolf is acting on his orders, but he’s got him on a leash.  
  
Kaiser tells a joke, something about cats, and the audience he brought with him titters with polite laughter. At least they’re good for something. I can’t be bothered to listen to this sideshow anymore, so instead I take a deep drink from my pint, letting the bitter liquid flow over my tongue. The Empire and the Undersiders snipe at each other some more, and there’s a moment when the two groups almost come to blows. It’s strange, seeing them both about ready to start butchering each other while I sit sipping a pint. It isn’t our fight, though.  
  
Eventually it winds down, and the two groups agree to put the issue on hold until their next meeting. Next meeting? What is this, a monthly thing?  
  
“That’s settled then,” Coil interjects. “Anything else? Issues, negotiations, requests?”  
  
Nobody speaks; I guess we’ve all got it out of our system.  
  
“Then let’s conclude the meeting. Thank you for attending. Faultline, could I have a word before you leave?”  
  
Figures he’d be the one to end the meeting. After all, he’s the one who started it. Dreadlocks’ groups leave first, practically storming out. Something tells me they won’t be cooperating, and that’s fine with me. Has to hurt; being the only group in the room without a seat at the table. The Merchants, I think that’s the name, hold territory, but I guess that doesn’t count for much when they only have three capes. Just goes to show how much emphasis these people place on Parahumans; the Travellers hold no territory, but because they came here with four capes and some fancy costumes, they get a seat.  
  
They stick around, surprisingly enough, hanging around their table like they’re unsure over whether they want to stay or go, even as the Undersiders leave and the Empire settle down to hash things out or have a few drinks, not sure which. Coil and Faultline move off to a side booth, engaging in deep conversation and no doubt fierce negotiations over prices. Coil’s probably trying to include a few clauses meant to get one over on the Empire, but I don’t think the boss will go for them. She’s low risk.  
  
“Sonnie. I have been thinking.”  
  
I bite back the reaction to quip. Gregor takes everything he says seriously, so I humor him a lot more than I do Newter.  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“The beer you’re drinking.”  
  
My eyes flick down to my glass. Nothing wrong with it as far as I can see, except for the fact that it’s almost empty.  
  
“What about it?”  
  
“You do not eat carbohydrates, when you can avoid it, but you also drink thick beers that are full of them.”  
  
“What? No.”  
  
Wait a minute.  
  
“No… No!”  
  
Shit. I thought my stomach was acting up recently.  
  
I hear laughter picking up, and see Newter grinning at me from the other side of the table. He’s looking over the top of his own near-empty glass of coke, drinking in my despair like fine wine. Shit, I should probably avoid wine as well.  
  
“Alright… It’s not the end of the world. I’ll just have to drink spirits instead. You think this place has scotch?”  
  
Gregor rubs his hand against his chin, two of the shell-like growths on his skin clicking together.  
  
“Perhaps, but now is not the time. The negotiations seem to have finished.”  
  
And so they do. The Travellers have all gone now, apparently deciding not to stay around for a quick pint. The Empire, on the other hand, seem to be getting into the swing of things, and Kaiser’s squeeze is having a very animated conversation with the two blonde twins, though they seem to be a little catty to each other, and a man in a gas mask and… and an actual Nazi military uniform. Huh. Faultline and Coil are just shaking hands, before the skeletal man turns and exits the bar.  
  
Gregor slides over, to make some room for Faultline to sit. She takes a second to look around the room, but the Empire seem to be well and properly distracted.  
  
“The contract’s been negotiated. We’re getting two hundred grand up front, and an extra hundred for every week the truce lasts. It’s not as much as I’d have liked, but it does free us from any covert action against Coil’s rivals. It does commit us to defending his territory if the Empire break the truce, but that’s unlikely to occur. For all his grandstanding, Kaiser understands the value of the unwritten rules.”  
  
That’s a pretty good deal, all things considered. Still, it’d be best to raise my suspicions to Faultline.  
  
“I think the Travellers are working for Coil.”  
  
She nods.  
  
“I think so too.”  
  
“So, what does that mean for us?”  
  
“Nothing. Not while the truce is on, and not after. We don’t get involved. There are six of us, but that’s not enough to protect us if we wade into local politics. Our numbers and our neutrality are what keep us afloat.”  
  
Makes sense to me. Sure, Coil might be playing silly buggers with the city, but that doesn’t matter to us. So long as the Palanquin’s still there, then we’ll be okay.  
  
We head off after that; not much point in sticking around here when we have a far better bar back home. The sun’s set while we were in there, and the night’s sky is lit by a burning building off in the distance.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
Let’s say you’re part of a coalition of villains. Your new ‘allies’ are people you’ve been fighting for years, perhaps even decades. You’ve dedicated your life to fucking them over in any way you can, but something’s gone wrong and now you have to fight alongside them. You can’t just go off half-cocked, and you can’t trust your former enemy to act in good faith on their own. You need to coordinate, to plan your attacks and make sure that everyone knows exactly what everyone else is doing. So where do you meet? Well, you can’t meet in your own evil lair, what if someone discovered all your secrets? Can’t meet in the lair of your enemies because you don’t trust them not to turn on you.  
  
If only there was a building owned by a neutral group, whose location is a deliberately open secret and who have a reputation for professionalism. Would also be great if it served drinks…  
  
The Palanquin’s been pretty much transformed overnight. The sheer number of blades armour and claws on our people have led to the glossy floor being covered with thick plastic sheeting, and various pieces of radio equipment have been scattered around the room. There’s one of Coil’s mercs listening to the police, military and PRT communications, a headset on over his concealing balaclava. More human intelligence is constantly coming through the door, as the Empire’s foot soldiers in come back from creeping through the contested areas.  
  
The center of the room is taken up by a big steel table, with a map of the city spread out across it. The map was brought in by Krieg, and is every bit as oversized as a supervillain’s map should be. Even has an Empire crest in the top corner; an American eagle carrying some kind of axe. The city’s divided into colored blocks; red for the Empire, blue for the merchants, green for the ABB and grey for Coil, with crosshatched areas marking contested territory. The borders are out of date, of course, and new symbols have been added on top of the map to mark the extent of the ABB’s push, as well as the areas behind the military’s security cordon.  
  
The leaders and strategists of the various gangs are all standing around the map, adjusting the symbols and discussing whatever intelligence comes through. It’s slow work, and every good Mover or Stranger we have is out there, bringing back yet more info on possible targets. The whole thing comes together into this wonderful example of cooperation and brotherhood, which is really weird, when you think about it.  
  
There’s not much I can add to the campaigning, of course, but there are a lot of hangers on around here anyway. Kaiser came with the living nightlight, Krieg (the SS fetishist), and Hookwolf, which must make them his lieutenants. Of the three, only Krieg is really playing an active role. The glowing woman, Purity according to Gregor, is hovering around the map without actually participating, while Hookwolf is polishing off his fourth vodka and trying unsuccessfully to flirt with the girl behind the bar.  
  
Trickster, of the Travellers, is actively involving himself in the meeting, but the rest of his team have grabbed a few sofas in the VIP room and seem happy to stay there. Grue, the shadow guy from the Undersiders, is trying his best, bless him, but most of their contributions are coming from the girl in the tight purple outfit. She’s hovering annoyingly close to Faultline, who’s ignoring the kid with stoic professionalism. I forgot to ask Faultline exactly what she did to piss this kid off so much.  
  
I guess it doesn’t really matter. Probably best to just ignore her and hope she goes away.  
  
Coil’s an interesting one. His men are all hardcore milcorp looking types, dressed in body armour and armed with rifles with some sort of underslung Tinkertech. The Empire kicked up a fuss when one of his mercs started to give tactical advice, only for Coil to explain that the man had led a battalion in San Pedro Sula, wherever that is. The capes might not respect normal humans, but at least they do acknowledge experience, when they have to.  
  
Come to think of it, I don’t even know if Coil’s a cape. Wouldn’t that show them.  
  
There’s the flapping of wings by the door, and a little green gremlin thing flits its way into the room. For a second, I get ready for a fight, until I see the red and black tuxedo the little thing is wearing. Another Traveller? Just how many of them are there? It looks like a winged green goblin, and lands itself on Trickster’s shoulder, before whispering in his ear.  
  
“Got another confirmed target,” the leader of the Travellers begins, “right here.”  
  
He points to one of the sights identified by the Empire’s scouts as having a heavy ABB presence. It’s marked with a symbol identifying it as suspicious, but Trickster swaps that out for one marking a confirmed target. He doesn’t move his hands either, switching out the two green markers through some kind of teleportation power.  
  
“Looks like they’re packing cocaine in there.”  
  
The business of the ABB hasn’t stopped for something as little as an insurgency. They recently pushed the Merchants out of their territory, surprising absolutely no-one, and in doing so they ‘inherited’ their stores of narcotics. Maybe they’re hoping that they can force the military back and get rich exporting drugs into the US, maybe they’ve gone insane and are just throwing stuff at the wall and seeing what sticks.  
  
“Might be worth sending a team to deal with them. If nothing else, it’ll deal a blow to their wallets.” Coil is scratching his chin with his hand, his faceless mask looking down over the map of the city.  
  
“I propose we hit three of these locations, here, here and here,” he pointed towards three targets that were distant enough to cover a large swathe of ABB territory, while still close enough for each group to support the other if needed.  
  
“But who will attack each target?”  
  
Kaiser’s looming over the map, looking down over what he no doubt sees as ‘his’ city.  
  
“We divide our forces into mixed teams, with representatives from each group. To prevent accidents.”  
  
Kaiser scoffs, but nods his head. He still can’t see just how bad he’s getting shafted here; with Coil’s mercs, the Travellers and the Crew, his capes will always be outnumbered if they try anything. Somehow, I doubt the Undersiders would leap to his defense. Hell, they might join in the fun.  
  
The five gang leaders, plus Tattletale for some reason, start to hash out the different team compositions, inevitably descending into bickering. As they do, the goblin thing starts to whisper into Trickster’s ear. The Traveller shakes his head and shrugs, before waving an arm in my direction.  
  
The green thing swoops off his shoulder, gracefully flapping its way on wings that seem just a little too small, before coming to a hover in front of my face. In spite of it’s appearance, its voice is that of a surprisingly normal-sounding girl.  
  
“Hey. This is your place, right?”  
  
I bring my head up to the level it’s hovering at.  
  
“Yeah. Well, it’s Faultline’s place, but I live here.”  
  
“Have you seen the rest of the Travellers? Trickster doesn’t know where they went.”  
  
I flash her a grin, and hold out my arm.  
  
“Yeah. Saw a couple of them head upstairs to the VIP room. Climb on.”  
  
The Case-53, if that’s what it is, perches itself on my arm, before scrambling up onto my shoulders. I bring it up the stairs and through into the VIP room, where two of the other Travellers are lounging about. I turn to the goblin on my shoulder.  
  
“Hey, what happened to the ape from the meeting?”  
  
The creature looks at me in confusion, cocking her head.  
  
“Um… You’re looking at her. I’m Genesis.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad to meet you. Name’s Khanivore. Us freaks have to stick together. So, what are you, anyway? Some kind of shapeshifter?”  
  
She nods, surprisingly sheepish for a goblin thing, and flies across the room to sit in the lap of the girl with a sun motif on her chest.  
  
“That’s fucking awesome. Can you change now?”  
  
She shakes her head, grinning with a mouth full of yellowed teeth.  
  
“It takes a while, and it works better if I can understand the anatomy of what I’m changing into.”  
  
A plan starts to form in my mind. I think Faultline put me in a group with Genesis.  
  
“You don’t say… Can I borrow you for a sec? I have an idea I think you’ll like.”


	40. Insurgency: 6.04

It’s a little more real this time.  
  
On the surface, nothing has changed. We’re still in the van, and we’re still driving on our way to a job. Nothing I haven’t done at least half a dozen times since I got here. But then I look up, look out the window. There’s a building there, or what’s left of one. The concrete and steel have been replaced by clear glass, gradually collapsing underneath its own weight. A sea of silicates has fallen down the left side, where the glass pillars proved unable to support the weight of the parts of the tower that were outside the bomb’s radius.  
  
That’s not the worst of it, though. The people are still inside the building. It was an office block, that much I can tell, and it doesn’t look like they were warned about the bomb. I can see people sitting at their desks, glass phones raised to their glass ears in silent conversation. Two women in suits are standing by a water cooler, idly chatting while a third takes a drink, a thin bead of glass connecting her cup to her mouth. The blast wasn’t instantaneous; the people on the edge of the radius have the faint beginnings of fear on their face, and there’s half a statue of a screaming man at the very edge of the sphere, where the feds have scooped away the remaining organic bits.  
  
I can see his internal organs mapped out in perfect accuracy at the very moment he was bisected.  
  
If one of those bombs hit me, would I feel it? Would I even notice, or would I just die instantly, replaced by brittle glass? It’s a real concern; the ABB have more bombs. The Tinkertech stuff is rare, but frequent enough to be worth remembering. Even without it, the ABB are packing much heavier ordinance than I’m comfortable with.  
  
I’m afraid, and that fear is slowly turning into a liability. My ‘edge’ worked by forcing me into a fight or flight situation, and then taking away the option to flee. I couldn’t run away in a pit fight, not with walls all around me. There are still walls here, I can’t survive without the Crew, and Blasto’s tech in the Palanquin, but the walls are less rigid, less defined. My fear has become something I need to bite down, something I need to keep leashed until I have no other option than to fight.  
  
The van rolls to a stop and Newter and Labyrinth get out, the kisa following closely behind the orange-skinned kid as they make their way to the first target. Gregor pulls the van away, the tires rolling over bits of brick and masonry blasted out from a collapsed railway bridge. The cars on either side of this street are riddled with bullet holes, like a machine gun has fired down the length of the entire road. No way to tell if the damage was done by the Army or the ABB, but something big happened here. A few blocks down we have to divert around a building that has become warped and twisted, stretched and compressed into shapes that hurt to look at.  
  
Then the van rolls to a stop again, and Faultline steps up to open the door. I swallow my fear, and leap down after her. My claws scratch against the tarmac as Faultline slides the door shut, sending Gregor and Spitfire off to the final target. She starts to pace through the rubble, clambering through an abandoned building to reach the next block over, and I follow in her wake, padding through heaps of clothes scattered haphazardly around the second-hand store. Faultline briefs me as we go.  
  
“The target is a suspected command and control center, or the closest thing the ABB has to one. The priority is capturing high-value individuals alive, and seizing any documents or computers undamaged. Anything else, radios, weapons, drugs, even food, we blow.”  
  
I’m easily able to match her pace on all fours, moving a single step for every three she takes.  
  
“Who’s coming from the other side?”  
  
“Genesis and Trickster from the Travellers, Victor, Othala and Krieg from the Empire, four of Coil’s mercenaries and Regent and Tattletale from the Undersiders. Watch out for Tattletale, she’s likely to ignore the truce and try to target you to get back at me.”  
  
I turn my head up to look at her, even as my left arm smashes a locked door from its frame.  
  
“What is it with you and her anyway, boss? You don’t seem like the sort to have a rivalry with a kid.”  
  
She scoffs, stepping over the remains of the door.  
  
“She needles me whenever she can. She’s the worst kind of Cape, one who relies almost entirely on her power. The girl hasn’t got a strategic bone in her body, instead letting her Thinker rating do all the work. It means she gets tetchy whenever she sees people actually applying themselves.”  
  
“No offence, boss, but that doesn’t really explain why this whole thing started. You must have a good ten years on her.”  
  
Faultline mutters something under her breath before answering.  
  
“When the Undersides first made their debut, hitting a jewelry store and escaping from Battery, I tracked them down. Not out of costume, of course, but I had Newter tail them after their next public job, and kept an eye on where they went from there. I approached Tattletale when she was in costume, and offered to bring the Undersiders into the Crew, on equal shares with the original members. She laughed in my face. Words were flung around, and it almost came to blows, but then she started pulling out a few personal secrets of mine.”  
  
We pass through a door on the other side of the building, darting across the alleyway before Faultline breaks the door of the next building over, separating the hinges with two quick taps and pushing the door to fall inwards.  
  
“Since then it’s like she’s been trying to prove she made the right choice by constantly needling me. She’s a waste of a power, who decided to take the easy way out. The Undersiders hit a bank last week, an actual bank robbery. They can’t have taken away more than a few thousand per person, but it meant they only had to fight the Wards. You’d never see them fighting Dragon, or Chevalier or Myrrdin. Tattletale isn’t even their leader; she’s happy to play subordinate to Grue!”  
  
She disintegrates the next door; I think she’s venting her frustrations through her power.  
  
“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who let their powers do the work for them. Tattletale doesn’t care about being clever, because her power already makes her clever. She doesn’t have to consider which action is the best one, or take risks without knowing the outcome, because she’s a high-level predicative Thinker. Everything I have, the Crew, the Palanquin, a whole network of private eyes, I’ve had to work for it all. My power hasn’t helped me, at times it’s even been a hindrance. I’ve had to squeeze every scrap of value out of it, and she just coasts through life.”  
  
She looks like she’s about to say more, before pushing open a set of double doors that brings us to an abandoned café, chairs and tables abandoned around the room. It looks to be in good nick, but neither the owners or the customers will be coming back for a while. Three capes are waiting when we arrive; Krieg, in his Nazi costume, and two other Empire capes. Four other men are waiting off in the corner, dressed in the black fatigues of Coil’s mercenaries.  
  
The first cape is an absolute bombshell of a girl in a skintight red bodysuit that hugs all the right places, and with flowing blonde hair that hangs over one of her eyes. I’d consider making a pass at her if she wasn’t clinging to the third empire cape like a magnet. Clearly she’s taken. And a Nazi. And probably not into me anyway.  
  
Her man hasn’t copied her sexy Bond villainess look, instead wearing a red t-shirt tucked into black combat trousers, all topped with a piece of black metal chest armour, like an old knight, and an angled mask covering half of his face. More important, to my eyes at least, is the long-barreled rifle hanging from a strap that runs across his chest. A belt has been strapped over the top of the breastplate, with pouches filled with what must be ammunition. I guess the Empire doesn’t play around.  
  
That must be Victor, by process of elimination.  
  
“Faultline. Glad you could make it. I’m afraid there’s no power for the coffee machine, not that any of us now how to work it.”  
  
There’s something about Krieg’s accent. It sounds German, which is what you’d expect, but there’s something else underneath it.  
  
“A pity. I should have brought a flask,” Faultline says as she settles into one of the other chairs. I settle down beside her. “I hope the others get here soon; it’s three minutes and counting.”  
  
Krieg kicks his chair back, leaning back on two legs and tapping his fingers on the table.  
  
“Always aim for five minutes before, right? It’s more professional that way.”  
  
The creaking of a wooden floor flows in from the next room over, and the mercenaries silently tense up. Victor’s hand drops down to the barrel of his gun, before a top-hatted man strolls in through one of the side doors.  
  
“Good day,” Trickster says jovially, “I trust we’re not late.”  
  
The creaking continues, and an enormous shape follows the Traveller into the room. It’s hunched over, but it still almost comes up to Trickster’s head. Its body is a masterwork of sinew and muscle, concealed beneath smooth grey skin and armoured plates of bone. Those plates run along the length of its tail and continue on up its back before ending in a wicked spike on its head. It’s beautiful.  
  
“Excellent…” Faultline sighs sardonically, “Now there are two of them.”  
  
Genesis grins at me, flashing a mouth full of pearly white fangs, and I return her smile. Turns out her power works better if she can understand the biology of the creature she’s creating, and nobody in the world understands their biology better than I do. Sure, I picked up most of my knowledge through osmosis, but I saw Khanivore being built right in front of my eyes, and it was simplicity itself to build genesis a picture. Apparently, it’s the more powerful and stable than almost any form she’s tried so far.  
  
“But Faultline,” I begin, with a cheeky grin plastered across my face, “which one is the real Khanivore?”  
  
Faultline makes an admirable attempt to rub her face in exasperation, though the welding mask doesn’t help matters, before looking up at Trickster.  
  
“My one’s getting tetchy. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to trade?”  
  
The teleporter grins at her, looking from Genesis to me.  
  
“I don’t see why not. My one’s getting too shy anyway.”  
  
Gennyvore elbows Trickster in the shoulder, sending him stumbling over. Krieg chuckles to himself through his gas mask, before standing up in shock with the rest of us as a van screeches to a halt just outside. Guns and claws are levelled at the vehicle, before we see a girl in a purple bodysuit leap out the door, grinning at us like the fox you just found unashamedly rummaging through your bins. She’s followed by the fop in the frilled shirt, whose masked face swivels between me and Gennyvore.  
  
“This is getting out of hand; now there are two of them!”  
  
He starts to chuckle to himself, even as Faultline storms over to her rival.  
  
“What the hell were you thinking? What if you were spotted?”  
  
She cocks her head, resting her right hand on her hip. Idly, I note the pistol in a holster strapped to her thigh.  
  
“Relax, F. The street’s clear. Psychic, remember?”  
  
Krieg storms past the two, followed by the rest of the capes and Coil’s mercenaries.  
  
“Enough of this. It’s time to move.”  
  
I brush against Faultline as I pass, giving her just enough of a nudge to get her to move away from Tattletale. She makes her way to the other side of our group as we advance to the crossroads at the end of the street, while the girl decides to walk next to me for some reason. There’s barely any difference in height between us when I’m on all fours, but she leans down patronizingly to talk into my ear. Well, the organ that serves the same function as an ear.  
  
“Faultline must be so grateful to have someone like you keeping her out of trouble.”  
  
I grunt, in a way that could either be affirmative or negative. No reason to engage in her little games. The capes around us stride down the centre of the road, while the mercenaries hug the wall with their rifles raised.  
  
“It’s so nice to know that she has someone she can trust to do the right thing, keep her out of trouble. I know things got tough for your group up in Canada.”  
  
Bitch. Won’t work, though. I’m not going to fall for it.  
  
“By the way, do you have your own basket or does she let you sleep at the foot of her bed?”  
  
Cunt. I might not be a social butterfly, but if there’s one thing I do know it’s how to sling shit.  
  
“Don’t worry Tats, you don’t have to pretend with me. Faultline told me why you’re so upset with her.”  
  
Huh. There was a flash of worry on her cute little face, just for a moment.  
  
“Look, I get it. I think Faultline’s a bombshell too, and it hurts to know she doesn’t swing our way. But hey, we can support each other! What do you say, want to be rebound girls together?”  
  
The sheer look of disgust that flashes across her face is worth any cost. She practically scrambles away from me, while her teammate in the frilled shirt flashes me a thumbs up. I grin at him, but don’t have the time to do much more. We’ve reached the end of the block, and one of Coil’s mercs is peering around the corner with a small mirror. Once he’s satisfied, he snaps the mirror shut and jogs over to the rest of us.  
  
“Looks about as bad as we expected,” he begins in a professional tone, “They’ve demolished the buildings around the old department store to create a kill-field, and there are a few guards with machine guns watching the approach.”  
  
Krieg looks over to Victor, fixing the sniper with a questioning gaze.  
  
“I can probably deal with the machine guns, if I can get into position without being seen.”  
  
“I can bring us through the buildings by demolishing the walls,” Faultline adds, “but we’ll still need to cross the destroyed area. The rubble will slow us down. Othala,” she turned to the Aryan bombshell, “how long does your invincibility last?”  
  
“Fifty seconds.”  
  
Faultline turns to look at me.  
  
“Can you make it to the end in that time?”  
  
I bring my fingers up to scratch my chin, before remembering the claws.  
  
“How far is it?”  
  
His respond is short, sharp and useless.  
  
“Four hundred yards.”  
  
I sigh.  
  
“Anyone know what that is in real measurements?”  
  
“Around three hundred and sixty meters.”  
  
“Thank you, Krieg.”  
  
Let’s see here. I’m not specialized for speed, but I can get a decent burst out when I need to. Invincibility sounds nice, as I don’t think I could stand fire from heavier machine guns. Fuck it.  
  
“Yeah, I can make it.”  
  
Faultline nods, trusting me implicitly, though Othala looks a little unsure. She whispers something to Victor, who puts his hand on her shoulder in what looks like a gesture of reassurance. Krieg turns to Coil’s mercs.  
  
“With Khanivore drawing their fire, you should be able to follow and put down some suppressing fire on the ABB.”  
  
The squad leader, or at least the faceless mook who’s nominally in charge, sounds his agreement, and the capes start to get into position. Faultline pulls me aside, telling me to wait for her signal on the radio, before leading most of the capes through the buildings, forging a way ahead with her power. I’m left with the four mercenaries, the eye-catching Othala and the rapidly disappearing form of Victor as he clambers up onto the rooftops.  
  
There’s a tense period of waiting, during which we all sit silently just the other side of the corner. Othala keeps giving me nervous glances, and my smiles seem to do nothing to reassure her. The mercenaries are as still as statues, their rifles shouldered and ready to move. After what feels like forever, a short burst of sound comes through my radio.  
  
“Khanivore. We’re ready.”  
  
I send a brief burst back, switching the affinity-linked voicebox to transmit.  
  
“Roger. Moving in twenty seconds.”  
  
I brace myself, digging my heels into the asphalt. The mercenaries fan out behind me, while Othala moves herself up to my side. She reaches out with her hand hesitantly, as if she doesn’t want to touch me, before finally getting over whatever fear’s been crippling her at the last second. The moment her fingers make contact with my skin, I feel a sense of strength flow through my body.  
  
No time to lose.  
  
I pounce.


	41. Insurgency: 6.05

I drive my claws into the pavement, muscles heaving as tendons and sinews contract and expand. I leap forwards, reaching out to slam a taloned claw into the corner of the building beside me, smashing through the brickwork and pivoting my body around onto the street.  
  
I don’t look up at first, focusing on pushing myself forwards. There’s no gunfire at first, as unseen machine gunners overcome their shock at seeing me, and for a few brief moments all I can think of is the wind rushing across my skin as I move faster than I’ve ever had to before. The asphalt flows like water beneath me, and I dart a glance down the road  
  
The department store looms ahead of me, surrounded by a clearing of destroyed buildings. It’s an odd place, the variety of a shopping center crammed into a tiny building, and it had clearly seen better days even before the bombings. The bottom floor is wall to ceiling glass in tasteful wooden frames, half the panels smashed and broken. Above that frontage rises three stories of windows, again set in neat wooden frames, with two machine guns in shattered windows in the second floor.  
  
As I look, the two sentries finally get their shit together and swivel their gun right onto me. I flinch, in spite of my assured invincibility, as crackling gunfire echoes down the street, and projectiles of lead are hurled at me, so fast as to be practically invisible. I brace myself for the impact, but it never comes. Sure, I feel like I’m being hit, a faint sense of pressure rippling across my back, but it’s nothing like the bullets those FBI goons hit me with, or the other times I’ve been shot since then. I risk a look up, only to feel something bounce off my eye with a metallic sound. That proves the invincibility. I huddle my head as close to the ground as I can while still keeping up momentum, an automatic response to the sheer fear I’m feeling.  
  
If Othala hadn’t empowered me, that could have knocked my eye out. Probably gone through the optic nerve and ricocheted around my innards. It might not have killed me, but it would have been close. Instead it just slid over my skin like rain.  
  
The buildings are flying past, but the store doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. The weight of fire increases and increases as more gangers rush to the windows, shooting down the street with pistols, rifles, shotguns and anything else they can get their hands on. It feels like I’m running through a storm now, and I’m being followed by the clink, clink, clink of compressed lead hitting the tarmac. I can see the ABB goons shouting to each other in desperation, as they pour fire into the unstoppable object barreling down on them.  
  
Suddenly, and in complete silence, two beams of violet light, needle-thin and as bright as the sun, fly over my head in perfectly straight lines. The first beam impacts a window frame next to one of the machine gunners, before jerking left in a line that passes along the row of windows. The ganger leaps back in pain as his clothes ignite, and when he pulls his hand away from the red-hot gun, I spot hints of flesh melted to the weapon. The other gangers fare little better, as the beam burns briefly but fiercely into their skin. The second beam hits a machine gun dead one, burning through the magazine, which ignites into a spray of bullets and shrapnel, before carving another bloody path through the storefront.  
  
Directed energy weapons. These stone age primitives have directed fucking energy weapons.  
  
Coil’s men. This must be what that weird device under the barrel of their guns does. Must be nice being able to bullshit your way to power through Tinkertech.  
  
The beams drive the ABB back for a second, but the bombs in their neck drive them right back again. I think I hear the sound of a detonation from inside the building, but it’s hard to tell amidst the renewed gunfire. No more purple lasers fly over my head, I guess they only have so much battery, but that doesn’t stop me. Right now, there’s nothing that can.  
  
Another set of buildings pass, and someone appears on the fourth floor. He’s wearing a bulletproof vest over his bare chest, and his arms are absolutely covered in tattoos, but that’s not what makes him so notable. There’s a rocket launcher in his hand, with a distinctly odd-looking rocket on the end. I don’t stop, can’t stop, but my head is whirling as Tinkertech rocket is levelled squarely at the road in front of me. I tense, making ready to leap to the side and hope I can avoid the blast.  
  
He takes his time about it, as seconds stretch out into hours, levelling the rocket down the road and looking through the slightly raised sights. Moments before he fires, at the very instant his hand starts to contract against the trigger, an immense crack echoes through the street, and his shoulder explodes into a spray of gore. The launcher jerks upwards, sending the rocket shooting into the last building before the rubble. It catches the structure right on the lip of the roof, and disappears a whole chunk of the corner in the blink of an eye, leaving a clean spherical cut in the building.  
  
Thank you, Victor. Invincibility or not, I think you might have just saved my life.  
  
The last set of buildings pass me by, and now I’m running across open ground with seconds left before the invincibility runs out. I have to get in close enough to make their guns useless, and I have to do it now. To my left, the other Capes start to sprint across the road as Faultline shatters the wall they had been hiding behind, trusting in my distraction to keep them safe. The ABB have put a barricade across the road, parking a school bus to force oncoming vehicles to slow down. I leap onto the roof, crushing the flimsy metal beneath my weight, and push off towards the second story window.  
  
The last remaining machine gun fires at me as I hurtle towards him on my last moments of invincibility, his bullets ricocheting off my skin. I reach out with my claws as his eyes widen in fear, and slam him to the ground as we both skid across the carpeted floor. I can feel his wrist collapsing beneath the weight of my claw, crushed into the filthy carpet. I leap off him, and swing my right arm out towards a girl standing shell-shocked, a shotgun held loosely in her arms. My immense hands wrap around her waist, and I idly toss her out the window behind me.  
  
With a cape this close to them, one who’s still invincible in their eyes, the nerve of the ABB starts to break. There were a couple dozen mooks in here, but the ones closer to the back are all running up and down the stairs. That just leaves the die-hards, or the ones too close to get away. One of them rushes at me with a curved sword held in his grip, screaming bloody defiance as the people behind him try to get a clear shot. I simply grip the blade between my armored claws and haul the nutter in close, before throwing him at the mass of gunmen, who scramble out of the way. Before I can throw myself at them, there’s the crash of breaking glass from behind me.  
  
I pivot on the spot swiping at the goons behind me with my tail, only to see another me clamber through the window, slamming an elbow into a ganger as broken glass cascades around her. Genesis grins at me, and roars in bloody defiance before leaping into the stunned crowd of ABB scum. She whirls and turns throwing my weight against the foe, a beautiful dance of violence that has me briefly entranced. I’ve never seen myself fight before, and damned if it isn’t beautiful.  
  
One of the gangers drops his shotgun and makes a break for the window. I begin to pounce after him only to watch as he disappears in an instant, replaced by Trickster in his top hat and tuxedo, who takes a quick look around the room before teleporting again, swapping himself with an ABB ganger in the other corner of the room, who looks up at me in shock before I slam him against the wall, gripping his rifle in a taloned foot before bending it out of shape by clenching my toes.  
  
Trickster jumps into a pair of gangers, swapping one out before driving a truncheon into the knee of the other, who drops into a kneeling position. The truncheon is then brought down on the ganger’s head, before he flits away to repeat the process. The three of us go about our work like bloody butchers, moving from one thug to the next with an almost mechanical regularity. We’re maiming them, not killing, but there are a couple of corpses left by the mercenaries’ fire. The rules are different for humans, after all.  
  
Most of the gangers are gone now, and I can hear the sounds of fighting coming from the floor below. Gunfire sounds out, panicked and hurried, and a thin line of bullets punctures through the floor in a long line, as someone grapples with a gunman below me. I bring my head down to the floorboards, as genesis and Trickster storm up the stairs to the third story, and pace around, listening for the source of the shots. Once I have it, I split my tendrils into four and drive them into the floor around me, stabbing through again and again until the floor is too weak to support my weight.  
  
There’s a groaning and moaning of wood before the floor splinters into a hail of plaster that billows out into the floor below as I drop through. The goods on the last floor had all been pushed aside, but this one’s been left as it was before the insurgency. My fall is broken by a rack of clothes, a bench for trying on shoes, and some poor bastard’s leg which is crushed and broken into the ground. A quick eye reveals two more mooks behind the cripple, and I stab out with two tendrils, wrapping the elongated limbs around them and squeezing until they stop struggling.  
  
On the other side of the room, I can see Krieg standing in front of an unconscious gangster with two more embedded into the walls behind him. The last ganger takes a few shots at him with a submachine gun at him, but it’s like he’s surrounded by a field that slows the bullets until they drop to the floor uselessly. That’s when the floor beneath his feet buckles into the foundations, dropping him into a waist-deep pit. I go over and deal with him through a swift kick to the head, before Faultline steps out from behind the checkout, her clothes coated in a fine layer of plaster. She must have sent her power along the floor underneath the checkout.  
  
“Second floor’s clear, and the Travellers are on the third.”  
  
My report is clear and concise, and Faultline just nods before running up the stairs. I follow her, springing back up through the hole I’d made before smashing through the second-floor wall and into the stairwell. Coil’s mercs follow me up, having only just caught up, and the occasional crack of a rifle tells me that Victor’s still taking potshots when he can.  
  
The third floor is a mess of pulped wood amidst still standing shelves of books and other Knick knacks. Genesis has been barging through the shelves, knocking them down to give Trickster the line of sight he needs to ‘port in with his batons. Wood’s splintering under her fingers, and anyone not smart enough to run is getting crushed beneath the falling shelves. Anyone smart enough is then being immediately ganked by Genesis or Trickster.  
  
Faultline ducks under me, and I let her past. She starts attacking the shelves in the rest of the room, splitting them down the middle to attack any sneaky bastards hiding behind the with her own collapsible baton. If trickster’s an example of raw strength, then Faultline is more into refined brutality. When she fights, there’s not a single movement wasted. She goes straight for the weak spots, joints, groins, the back of the neck, rather than trying to overpower her opponents. There’s only one of them who manages to land a hit on her, and even then, she manages to twist so that the blow slides down her front rather than hitting her shoulder, and retaliates by splitting the floor under his feet, sending him through onto the second floor, then down again through the hole I made.  
  
I shake my head, and jump back into the fray, kicking over a shelf of my own and walking over it, ignoring the moaning from beneath. I can ear a woman shouting on the other side of the room, calling her fighters cowards and trying to organize a defense. That won’t stand. I lower my head, angling my spiked crest right at the shelves, and sprint forwards. Wood splinters around me, until it feels like I’m running through another storm, with the occasional meatier thud as I hit some bulky consumer good, or a ganger. No way to tell really.  
  
The shouts increase in pitch, until I burst through the last layer of shelving. I catch a glimpse of a red and green jacket, and drive my target into the wall with my arm, pinning the woman there. No, not a woman, a girl. She looks like she’s in her late teens, maybe the last year of secondary school, if she hasn’t dropped out. Her face is soft, but that’s the only part of her that looks young. Her head’s been shaved at the sides, with a long braid coming back off the top. Her jacket is worn and ragged, and she’s strapped pouches of ammunition onto a belt around her waist, with a knife on her thigh.  
  
She’s looking at me with a more intense hatred than I’ve ever seen. A real fucking fanatic, no doubt in my mind.  
  
The grunts with her are easy enough to deal with, I just bash them around with my tendrils until they stop moving, and I lift my arm just enough to wrap a hand around her throat, carrying her by the shoulders. There’s still a fight in this room, but she seems like a captain. She seems like someone who knows things, so I need to get her over to a secure place. I peer down the hole, watching the two Undersiders briefly jog past, and shout down.  
  
“Found a captain!”  
  
It’s Krieg who steps out under the hole, closely followed by that bitch Tattletits. The Nazi wannabe takes one look at my squirming captive as she pulls a knife from a thigh holster, only to drop it as I take her wrist in my other hand and squeeze, and shouts up.  
  
“Send her down!”  
  
The squirming Captain takes one look at the two story drop and immediately stops her struggle, forcing her angry expression into something between pleading and puppydog eyes.  
  
“No, no, no! Please! Don’t you re…”  
  
I grin at her, silencing her protests with a flash of my pearly whites, before letting go. She screams as she falls, her arms flailing. Krieg slows her down with his power, but he makes no effort to actually catch her. She hits the floor a good deal slower than she would have otherwise, but she doesn’t look happy about it.  
  
Not my problem. I turn and make my way to the next flight up, seeing Faultline and the Travellers do the same. One of Coil’s mercs is first, though, stepping out into the stairwell with his rifle drawn only to be thrown back by an explosion of dust and plaster. He takes it in his stride, though, dusting off his rifle before standing up as if nothing had happened.  
  
“They’ve blown the stairs up.”  
  
He might as well have been reading the shipping forecast for all the emotion he showed.  
  
Faultline pokes her head out into the corridor, only to be driven back by a burst of machinegun fire. She steps over to me and looks me in the eye, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.  
  
“Khanivore. I need you to… lift me.”  
  
I tilt my head quizzically, before looking up at the ceiling. For all her presence, Faultline isn’t actually all that tall. I nod at her, as seriously as I can manage, and only snicker a little as I wrap my hand around her waist and lift her up so that she can reach the ceiling with her hand. She sends a familiar spiderweb of cracks across the surface, weakening the structure without collapsing it, and the rest of us wait patiently for her to finish.  
  
Well, almost the rest of us. There’s a burst of shrill laughter from the hole to the second floor; Tattletale’s there, pointing up and laughing, while fumbling about in her pocket for something. Probably a phone. Luckily, Faultline finishes up before the girl can finish fiddling with her pouches, and she pouts at us once she finally manages to free her phone.  
  
One of Coil’s guys steps up, handing me a bar of explosives from his satchel. I take his meaning immediately, and strap the bar to the weakened ceiling while everyone steps away. Once I’ve moved back myself, the lead merc takes out a simple detonator, fiddling with the channels for a few seconds before depressing the trigger.  
  
The explosion is deafening, but I don’t let that distract me. Instead I rush in head on, stopping just below the hole and extending my tail to form a ramp of segmented bone. I feel the pressure of heavy boots as Coil’s guys rush up my back, firing the moment they clear the hole. There’s a chatter of return fire, and a black-clad body drops though the pit, but after a few moments everything falls silent.  
  
I use my tendrils to pounce up, leaving Genesis to help the rest. The room is a charnel house, with bodies riddled with gunshot wounds and a few ABB survivors, their hands on their heads, being watched over by the mercenaries. Whatever the room was before, it’s been turned into a barracks by the ABB. A whole side of the building has been given over to bunk beds and footlockers, where most of the surrendered ABB guys are, while the left is still the same café it was before, albeit repurposed as a mess hall. The real treasure, though, is the radio and computer equipment in the center of the room.  
  
There’s blood on the floor, and the scent of gunfire in my nose, but we’ve won. The building is clear, and the ABB’s secrets are ours for the taking.  
  
Looking around at the blood and the bodies, it doesn’t feel like a victory.


	42. Insurgency: 6.06

I’m breathing heavily, in and out, in and out, taking in the scent of blood and gunfire, a coppery tang that tastes bitter on the tongue. The room was still and silent, but activity is starting to happen now. The storm has swept everything away, and now it’s up to us to pick up the pieces. I turn, taking in the shattered windows and the corpse of the shirtless bloke with the rocket launcher, his shoulder shattered and surrounded by a pool of blood. Must have bled out while we were fighting our way up here.  
  
I turn from the sight, stepping over to the hole in the floor. It’s just me and the mercs up here, the rest are still waiting below. I lower down a pair of tendrils, and use them to haul up Faultline and Krieg, setting the two uniformed capes down on the wooden floor. Krieg starts to poke through the footlockers underneath the rows of bunk beds, rifling through them and putting any phones or other electronics, while Faultline makes a beeline for the computers.  
  
There’s a body sprawled out over the keyboard, four bullet holes in his back. While Faultline sets herself down in the slightly-bloody swivel chair, I grip the body by the shoulders and toss it behind me, not caring where it goes so long as it’s out of our way. To my left, Coil’s mercenaries start to rouse the prisoners, beating them into a long line and forcing them out into the stairwell. The first prisoner, a bloke who looks like he’s barely out of his teens, stops dead once he reaches the shattered remains of the flight of stairs, only for the lead mercenary to elbow him in the gut, before planting his boot on the guy’s chest and kicking him back. He levels his rifle at the captive, growling at him in an Eastern-European accent.  
  
“You blew up these fucking stairs, so you get to jump down them. It’s not that far, and it sure is better than a bullet.”  
  
I turn to Faulltine, who’s logging on with the password that some idiot had written on a posit-it and stuck to the screen.  
  
“Coil’s guys sure don’t fuck around…”  
  
Her head tilts to the side for a second, as she looks down at the corpse, and her hand rests on the bloody mouse as she works her way through the files.  
  
“That’s the nature of operating in Downtown. The source of the money is different there; less of a drug trade without any residences, and the businesses are all too big to charge protection to. It means that the sources of income that do exist, embezzling and white-collar crime, are much more fiercely defended. Coil has regular gunfights with the Empire, all conducted in secret or in the middle of the night, so as not to affect business.”  
  
She’s found the system for the radios, and is flicking through the active channels, jotting them down into her phone.  
  
“I’m convinced he’s supported by the big companies there: Fortress Construction, SAR International, Medhall. Maybe a few of the smaller ones as well. The tax breaks here are good, but probably not worth it if you have to worry about the Empire Eighty-Eight marching right past your building on one of their rallies. Not very good optics.”  
  
Makes sense to me, I guess. They also probably need to go lethal, just to keep up with the capes. Still, they seem to be very good at what they do.  
  
Krieg walks over from the footlockers, a plastic bag full of mobile phones in his hand. He sits down on the second chair and takes off his peaked cap to put on a headset over his gas mask, pushing the microphone out of the way.  
  
I leave the pair to their work, stepping over to the cracked and shattered windows, my feet crunching through broken glass. The department store is a little taller than the buildings around it, so I can see down the length of the avenue and over the rooftops to the rest of the city. The glowing shield of the Protectorate base is just poking through the buildings, a shimmering sphere only half-seen through the smoke rising from the city. There’s a fire, a few blocks away, slowly getting out of control. It’s deep in contested turf, so I don’t see the firemen getting anywhere near it.  
  
“Sonnie,” Faultline looks up at me from the computer, “can you check on the Undersiders? See how their interrogation is going.”  
  
I tear myself away from the distant smoke, stepping back across the shattered glass and over a corpse nobody’s bothered to move, and move over to the hole in the floor.  
  
“Sure thing, boss. I’ll see what they’re up to and radio back.”  
  
The floor creaks under my weight as I move to the gaping hole left by Faultline, and the breaching charge. Wood creaks as I get closer, but the floor manages to hold. This is a commercial building, so its ceiling is a little higher than most, but I still have to stoop. Rather than dropping down the hole, and risking a possible collapse, I splay out my tendrils and rest them on the floorboards, using them to pick myself up and lower myself down the hole, gently settling my weight onto the collapsed shelving of the third story. This floor’s empty; all the goons have been dragged out, and it was just the Crew and the Travellers on this floor, so there aren’t any bodies lying around the place.  
  
It’s easy work to scrabble over the shelving, through kitchen utensils and useless tat, over to the next hole. I peer over, looking past the mess I made of the second floor and down to the clothing department, still littered with racks and fabrics but now absent the short captain. I spend a second judging the distance, but I’ve never been much of the type to plan things out.  
  
I drop down two stories, pulling off an absolutely classic three-point landing on the ground floor, one what splinters the floorboards a little beneath my weight, and sends the column of ragged prisoners scrambling backwards, before being beaten back into line by the mercs. The mercs, by the way, didn’t so much as flinch. They’ve got the captives sitting in rows, and one of them is going up and down the rows bandaging up those with the worst wounds. I’d say he’s being altruistic, but I’m not in the business of lying to myself.  
  
I take a couple of steps, rubbing talons up and down my legs to dislodge the brightly coloured blouses that were the worst casualties of my landing, and look around for any sign of the Undersiders. Let’s see here… If I had someone I wanted to work over, where would I go? Somewhere confined and isolated, but close enough to let the other captives hear the screams. I look around the room, taking in what passes for fashion in the twenty tens, not nearly enough skin, and smile to myself as I step off, making for the changing rooms.  
  
As I thought, they’re all in here. Tattletale’s sitting out in the little corridor or some padded swivel chair, her legs cocked and her hands folded daintily in her lap, a position so unlike what I’ve seen of her personality that I can only assume it’s part of some psychological tactic. The other one, prissy boy, is at the back of the changing room, leaning against the mirror and idly playing with a heavy-looking scepter. Between them, zip tied to another chair, is the prisoner, her face already starting to bruise from her little fall. Her head’s hanging low, and her eyes are franticly looking anywhere other than Tattletale. When she spots me, she visibly flinches.  
  
Tattletale coos in false sympathy, and reaches out to pat her cheek.  
  
“I know. She’s scary right?” she turns to me, her tone absent any of that compassion, “She’s seen you before. Any idea where?”  
  
I move a little closer, no easy task in a corridor this narrow, and reach out with my claws to get a better look at her face. Nothing immediately leaps out, but she’s in the right age range and she’d look the part, if it weren’t for the bruises.  
  
“Maybe. There’re always girls hanging around the Palanquin. Never paid much attention to them.”  
  
Tattletale leans in closer, unfolding her legs.  
  
“Now this is interesting. She hates that you don’t recognize her, just a little bit, but it’s buried beneath a more general hatred. For capes? For capes. She doesn’t know whether to make herself small and unnoticeable, or throw herself at your feet and beg for mercy. It’s funny really; she thinks of herself as this hardened badass, but ever time she runs into someone more powerful than her, her first thought is to bend over and do what they say.”  
  
The captain is trying to shrink further into her chair, her shoulders shaking, while the fop in the frilly shirt starts to chuckle to himself.  
  
“This going anywhere, Tattletale, or is this just how you get your rocks off? Faultline sent me to get results, and I don’t want to tell her you’re wasting time playing the sadist.”  
  
Tattletale shakes her head in exaggerated dismay.  
  
“Wow. She really has you on a tight leash, doesn’t she? It’d be tragic if this loyalty was forced into your head, but I’ve got a good enough read on you to see that you really are just blindly devoted to her. Man’s best friend, am I right?”  
  
I don’t dignify that with a response, and she soon loses interest, turning back to the captive.  
  
“You’ve probably figured it out by now, but I’m very good at reading people. What I’ve been doing now, poor sweet Nova, is worming my way into your head. Did you like my nice girl act? I thought you would. It’s modeled after what you think of your girlfriend, after all. Oh…” her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, “Was she supposed to be a secret? That’s right. I’m in your head right now, ferreting out all your secrets, all the things you’re most desperate to keep. I’m a bona fide psychic.”  
  
Says the girl without the affinity neuron symbiont.  
  
“And there it is!” she claps her hands together, “The connection everyone makes! That’s right, Nova, I can do that too. So many possibilities. Do you want me to twist your self-loathing into suicidal despair? Or take away the ambitions you’re so proud of until you can’t even aspire to feeding yourself? Or maybe I’ll twist your love into hate, and send you back to your sweetheart.”  
  
As the captive, Nova apparently, breaks down and starts to sob, loud enough for the sounds to carry into the main floor, Tattletale turns to me, before pointing at the wall at the end of the row of changing rooms. There doesn’t seem to be anything special about it, until I spot the slightly different paint on the plaster.  
  
“Whatever she’s trying to hide, it’s behind this wall. Take a swipe at it with your paw, pet.”  
  
I barge past her, ignoring her fake outrage as she rolls away on her swivel chair, and curl my hand into a fist, before bringing it down on the wall. It punches through the plaster like it’s nothing, and reveals a set of stairs going down into a basement floor that none of us had noticed. I switch on my radio, using real psychic powers, thank you very much, and send off a message.  
  
“There’s a basement level hidden behind a false wall.”  
  
Her response comes back in an instant, the only delay the time it takes her to hit transmit on her own radio set.  
  
“We’re coming down. Don’t head in until we know what we’re dealing with.”  
  
“Roger.”  
  
I turn to the smug blonde, looking down my nose at her.  
  
“Well, ‘psychic’, what are we dealing with?”  
  
She’s leaning back on her chair, her legs stretched out in front of her, and looking over her spandex at the crying captain.  
  
“Something big, but not in use right now… Something important to whoever holds her leash… An old Bakuda workshop, held in reserve in case she gets run out of her new one.”  
  
Shit. Pretty much the last thing I wanted to deal with. I push out of the changing rooms, just in time to see Faultline and Krieg come down the stairs.  
  
“It’s one of Bakuda’s workshops. Abandoned, thank fuck, but I’m not keen on taking any chances.”  
  
“Agreed,” Krieg spoke in his weird not-quite-German accent, before turning to one of Coil’s mercs, waving dismissively over the rows of prisoners.  
  
“Get them up. March them a few blocks out, then call the Police and leave them there.”  
  
The lead merc looks like he’s about to snap back something about authority, but decides against it, sending two of his men to lead the captives away. Their captain is dragged out of the changing rooms and stuck on the end of the column, limping with every step. The mass exodus brings Trickster and Genesis in from outside, and Faultline quickly fills them in on the situation. Victor and Othala also enter, summoned from their post-fight makeout sex by Krieg. Or whatever they were doing.  
  
“It’s likely trapped,” Faultline is the first to speak.  
  
“Of course it is,” Tattletale snaps back, “but only with mundane explosives. She probably didn’t want her security system to degrade over time. It won’t bring the building down if it goes off.”  
  
“That’s great.” Krieg’s response is dripping with sarcasm. “Any volunteers to go get themselves blown up?”  
  
There’s a chuckle from Trickster.  
  
“Is that all?” He grins wolfishly, and looks around the room. “Genesis, would you mind?”  
  
The second me looks confused for a second.  
  
“Oh. Right.”  
  
She paces off into the changing room, and a few seconds later I hear a sharp bang. I flex my talons instinctively, while Trickster doubles over laughing. More than a few dirty looks are shot his way, even from the Empire capes. Tattletale, of course, looks like Christmas came early. Must have something to do with Genesis’s power.  
  
Krieg is the first to chance the stairs, he’s the most well equipped to take a hit, and calls the rest of us down once he’s sure he’s safe. I’m not really sure what I was expecting: a high-tech lab, a load of tesla coils and brass, a chemistry classroom. What I wasn’t expecting was the bombed out remains of something that looks like a meth lab. There are bags of chemicals just scattered about the place, arrayed in a loose circle around a workbench, like Bakuda kept all her supplies within arm’s reach, but never bothered to put them back when she was done.  
  
The general mess is nothing, though, compared to the hoard of bombs loosely piled on top of the workbench. They’re all unique, in different shapes and sizes, and they’ve all just been left out with no care for safe storage. It reminds me a lot of Blasto’s base. I’d put his mess down to his cannabis habit, but maybe all Tinkers are like this. It pisses me off, to be honest.  
  
The Predators always took this shit seriously. Back when Jacob and Karran first started spinning sequences, they bribed their way into Imperial’s lab, just to get the absolute perfect conditions for reaching the embryonic stage. Then it was the lorry we bought to turn into a clean-room, with terrariums perfectly balanced for each organ. I watched it all, as Jacob got by controlling our scrap-built projects, earning just enough to keep Khanivore growing.  
  
Once the skeleton was grown, and the organs properly formed, Ivrina was sealed in the back of the lorry in a clean suit and an oxygen tank, to ensure no airborne pollution could muddy the purity of our creation as she fused together organs, muscle and bone. I had my ‘accident’ before she could fuse on the skin and exoskeleton, but after a few hasty modifications she put me in there, and I got to watch as my eyeballs were put in and connected for the first time, then hang motionless as she fused the skeleton and exoskeleton together.  
  
Even afterwards, when we were throwing Khanivore into fight after fight, and drinking away our nights, Wes was careful to keep all the hardware squeaky clean, and I’d always get an earful whenever he found I’d brought a girl into ‘his’ temple. Don’t remember him complaining back when it was him I was sleeping with.  
  
These Tinkers have no fucking respect. They just slap stuff together and hope it sticks, without ever bothering to understand the science behind it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no great thinker when it comes to science, but I knew enough to respect those who could do it well. One thing I do know is that you can’t just throw some random crap together and hope you get something functional. Science isn’t a fucking art, it’s science.  
  
Part of me hates the way everyone runs around the room like kids in a candy shop. The fop is the worst, he’s bouncing around like a malfunctioning servitor-chimp, picking up and setting down bombs without a care in the world.  
  
“Hey, you think we can keep these?”  
  
“No.”  
  
The word comes simultaneously from Krieg, Faultline and Tattletale, but it falls to Krieg to explain as the two rivals stare daggers at each other.  
  
“Tinkertech degradation is bad enough without adding explosives to the mix. Frankly it’s a miracle this place hasn’t gone up already. We should leave it for the PRT.”  
  
That’s all I need to hear. I make my way out of the confined space as fast as I can, or as fast as I can while maintaining my reputation as a hardened badass. I step out of the now empty department store, only for a familiar green imp to land on the destroyed schoolbus.  
  
“Genesis.”  
  
“Hey, Khanivore.”  
  
She sounds quite chipper, especially for someone who got blown up recently.  
  
“So, what’s all this then? One minute you’re being blown to smithereens, the next you’re here, and in a far less attractive body.”  
  
“Yeah. I’m not really here now either. This is a projection; once it takes enough damage it disappears and I end up back in my original body.”  
  
I can’t help myself. I start to laugh, first snickering then guffawing uncontrollably. Soon my ‘human’ voice joins in as well, my mind broadcasting through the affinity link.  
  
“Well isn’t that fucking poetic.”


	43. Interlude: Sinéad Ní Chuilinn

The sound of a whistle pulls me from my sleep, taking away the comforting clatter of the tracks and the gentle sway from side to side as we round the bends. Instead, the rocking turns violent, and the clatter of the rails becomes a nuisance, rather than a relaxing reassurance. The young mother on the seat next to me, wrapped snugly in a shawl, stifles a small smile at me as I jolt awake, and goes back to gently rocking her babe in her arms. Her husband is on the other side of the aisle, wearing his Sunday best to try and make it big in the city. He doesn’t look nervous, but he wouldn’t, not with his son sitting next to him.  
  
The view out the window is a lot more interesting than the view inside; different to the endless green fields. Not better, not necessarily, just different. There are buildings here, taller than any I’ve seen before, with stone sides and flat roofs, and windows and balconies teeming with life. The streets are busy too, with dozens, maybe hundreds, of men and women going around on foot, by bicycle, or by car, dressed in suits and other such fineries.  
  
As the train slows, the view gets replaced by a brick station, with a green wooden awning casting shade over the platform. The train slows to a crawl, before juddering to a stop in a move that almost catches the passengers unawares, and shakes the baby back awake. The young mother immediately starts rocking the kid, cooing sweet nothings to try and calm it down. It doesn’t work, and she flashes me an apologetic smile as she follows her husband out the train. Once she’s out, I stand up myself and reach up to grab my leather suitcase from the shelves, struggling a little under the weight before managing to get it under control.  
  
It’s only right that I should struggle; my whole life is in this case.  
  
The first thing that hits me when I step out of the carriage, is the coal dust from the engine. The second thing is the sound; I couldn’t quite hear it inside the carriage, with its windows shut tight against the unseasonal cold, but there’s a constant murmur of noise here; footsteps, conversations, hoofbeats and automobiles all combining to create the sound of the city, so different from the quiet fields of Tiperrary. Right now, it’s distracting, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it. I’ll have more than enough time to.  
  
The station itself is quite grand, six platforms and twice as many lines, with some ending here and others going on further south. My train happened to stop at the one closest to the station building, but I still need to walk all the way up to the entrance, past the second and first-class carriages. It wouldn’t do for me to lose my humility by travelling in anything more than third class, would it? There are quite a few people on the platform, all moving up towards the one exit. Some are regulars, to whom this trip is a perfectly normal thing, others are holidaymakers, enjoying the freedom to travel that their wealth has provided. A lot, an awful lot, are like the family; desperate people looking for work in the big city.  
  
There’s a queue in the station building, again divided into first second and third. Naturally, the third-class queue stretches down much of the station itself. That’s okay, though. I have plenty of time left. It does mean I won’t be able to see the city at all, not properly, but hopefully I’ll be able to find some time for that in a few months. The queue progresses, slowly, and it’s only been a little while when I find myself in the station building itself, moving closer towards the checkpoint, It’s manned by a few bored-looking Gardaí , truncheons and pistols belted to their dark green uniforms, and supervised by an attentive Provost in somber black.  
  
I fish about in the pocket of my skirt as I get closer to the front, pulling out the yellow Rail Warrant given to me at the start of my journey. The group ahead of me, two men with heavy canvas bags, are pulled aside by the Provost and searched by the Gardaí, which brings me right up to the front of the line. I hand my papers over to the constable, trying not to notice the wispy moustache that he clearly tried to grow too early. He looks up at me in slight surprise when he sees the paperwork, before handing it back and waving me through.  
  
It might not have got me a good seat, but people respect Temple documents enough to give me no trouble at checkpoints.  
  
That respect also lets me ask one of the Garda for directions, something I’d never have dared otherwise. Still, given the alternative is to wander the streets blindly hoping to find the right place, it seems a necessary thing. The city’s a little different now that I’m actually part of it. It had seemed so orderly from the train; everyone had seemed to flow naturally down the street. Instead, I’m jostled about as I sometimes find myself going against the flow, while at other times being pushed forwards at a pace far faster than I’m comfortable with. Crossing the road is worse, having to dodge trams and automobiles, and even the slow-moving horse and cart of the rag and bone men.  
  
Eventually, though, I find it. The very center of the city, closed off behind high iron fences and watched over by uniformed soldiers in their black jackets. The building is much the same as many other new Temple structures, but on a massive scale. Great stark towers of raw concrete ring the perimeter, holding administrative offices that loom over the city, while the center is filled by vast halls that hold the beating heart of Temple and State.  
  
My Warrant gets me past the soldiers, through the heavy gates and into the fortified Temple-Compound, but that’s all. It’s served its purpose now that I’m here, and I shall need a new one if I am to be sent on an errand into the city. Not that such a thing is likely to happen anytime soon…  
  
It doesn’t take too long for me to find the right building; there are signposts and maps dotted around the place. Inside, it’s a short trip of a juddering elevator to the top floor, a rickety thing I have to share with a couple of clerks. The wait in the waiting room is short, in spite of the secretary peering over her nose at me, and soon I am ushered into the office of the Temple-Quartermaster.  
  
His office is sparse, with the only decorations being two photographs on the wall, one of the Lord Protector and another of the Governor-General. The Quartermaster himself is a wiry old man, dressed in the plain black uniform of the Temple, ornamented by a gold chain of office hanging from his shoulder. He is sitting behind a fine wooden desk, out of place in the modern environment, with a cluster of papers spread out in front of him. I step up in front of the desk, there are no chairs for me to sit on, and curtsy before clasping my hands together.  
  
He looks at me over the top of his glasses, silently forming his own judgements, before speaking in a scratched voice worn down by age and poor living.  
  
“Your Warrant.”  
  
I reach into the pockets of my skirt, leaning over to place the yellow slip of paper on the desk. The Quartermaster scrutinizes it, sighing as if he’s disappointed that everything is in order, then pulls out a leather-bound ledger, turning to a page marked by a silk bookmark.  
  
“Name.”  
  
“Sinéad Ní Chuilinn, sir,” I manage to stammer out past my nerves.  
  
He doesn’t write anything down, instead leaning back a little to fix me with a piercing stare. Eventually, he sighs, muttering some beastly word to himself.  
  
“That won’t do at all. Where have you come from, child? The Industrial or Reformatory schools?”  
  
“Saint Augustine’s Industrial School, sir,” I try not to bristle at the unspoken implication.  
  
“Tipperary, I see. You’ll find things are different in Dublin. I’m putting you down in our books as Jeanette Cullen.”  
  
Some of my emotions must have slipped through into my face, as he throws a withering sigh at me.  
  
“I’m doing you a favor, girl. You’ll find your Gaelic does you little good here, and certainly not if you want to make something of yourself within the Temple and the wider Magisterium. This opportunity is not provided to everyone, you understand? The Temple has already given you a great deal, and I expect gratitude.”  
  
I school my expression, setting my face into quiet serenity.  
  
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”  
  
“Good. Governess Locklan is in charge of the Temple-School. You will find her office in the School itself. You are now officially on the books. Dismissed.”  
  
I give him a quick curtsy, before stepping out of his office and travelling back down the elevator, alone this time, before stepping out onto the quiet streets of the compound. The school is set near the edge of the buildings, almost bordering the perimeter wall, and is yet another squat concrete block, six stories tall with simple glass windows and next to no ornamentation. Once inside, I am led to my room by an older girl, but I have barely any time to put my case away before I’m whisked off to see the Governess.  
  
She’s a little younger than I might have guessed, barely into middle age, and she’s dressed in the same simple black uniform as every other senior Temple official. Her face is kind, where the quartermasters was cruel, and sympathetic where he was distant. Her office, however, is much the same. Plain and unadorned, save for the two photographs on the walls. She smiles as I step in and curtsy to her, before pulling out her own form with an almost apologetic look.  
  
“Welcome, child. I trust you have not come far?”  
  
“No, thank you Ma’am. From Tipperary. Saint Augustine’s.”  
  
A fond smile passes across her face.  
  
“How wonderful. And how is Sister Caitlin?”  
  
I school my surprised look at her familiarity with my old schoolmistress.  
  
“Very well, Ma’am, though her hip gives her trouble on occasion.”  
  
She leans back, as if remembering an old friend, before turning with reluctance to her paperwork.  
  
“Now, I hope you have already seen the Quartermaster? Good. Unfortunately, I still need to get you onto our books. This will only take a minute, so please bear with it.”  
  
I smile, briefly, as she pulls out a set of round reading glasses.  
  
“Your name, child.”  
  
“Si- Jeanette Cullen, Ma’am,” I catch myself just in time, but the Governess doesn’t comment on it.  
  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jeanette.”  
  
“And you, Ma’am.”  
  
Her eyes flick down to the next item on her list.  
  
“Age?”  
  
“Sixteen.”  
  
The questions continue, a short list that gives her the most pertinent information, while the rest, the medical records, examination results and such, will be posted down to Dublin in the next few days. Then the Governess puts away her folder, and starts asking about me personally. My hobbies, interests, passions, that sort of thing. I get the feeling she wants to understand me, understand all the students under her charge, and she’s making an effort to make me feel comfortable in this distinctly uncomfortable setting. A few more people like her, and his might not be so bad.  
  
There’s nothing scheduled for me today, they didn’t know when I’d be arriving, so the Governess has one of the older girls show me around the school. Much of it is distinctly similar, a few floors of identical classrooms and offices, but there are a few more important places that I am sure to take note of. The mess hall is the first thing the older girl, Marie, takes me to see, and we catch the end of the lunch rush, just in time for some good hot food. Then it’s off and into the School barracks, where she leads me to the room I share with seven other girls.  
  
It’s a plain place, as is to be expected, set along a long corridor of identical barrack rooms, capable of sleeping every girl in the school, with another floor for the boys. None of my roommates are in at the moment, but I can sense their presence through the neatly ironed uniforms hanging around the room. There are a few clean sets waiting on the bed for me, a simple black skirt and tunic worn over a plain white blouse. Without anything else to do, I take the new clothes a few doors down the corridor, to the ironing room, and spend a while getting the creases out. It wouldn’t do to make a bad impression through idleness.  
  
Only then, when I’ve applied polish to the accompanying shoes and hung the freshly ironed uniforms up in the locker I share with another girl, do I throw a towel over my shoulder and spend a good half hour under the communal shower in the ablutions room, probably the only time I’ll have them all to myself. Once I’m properly clean and smelling of soap, I put on the new uniform, enjoying the feeling of fresh cloth. I’m not really sure what to do with my old clothes from the Industrial School, so I just set them aside for now.  
  
I’m reading a book when the others come in, sitting on the top bunk of one of the beds, now covered with freshly made sheets. They all come in at once, probably from lessons, and pause as they see me. I’m saved from the awkwardness, however, when a girl with hair the same fiery ginger as my own steps up and thrusts her hand into my face.  
  
“Hello! You must be the new girl.”  
  
Like that, the ice breaks. I don’t quite catch all their names the first time around, but after a little while I’ve got them all sorted out. They lead me to dinner when it’s time, and we all sit at the same table as they introduce me to a string of girls from other rooms, though I have no hope of remembering any of them quite yet. The evening is quiet, with evensong right before lights out, and I fall asleep once more surrounded by the gentle breathing of other girls.  
  
Time passes, and I quickly fall into a routine. Wake at half five every morning, shower, then put on my uniform to prepare the shrines for morning prayers, making sure to clean every holy site in the compound before breakfasting at seven in the schoolgirl’s mess. Morning and afternoon are a patchwork of lessons and labor, learning mathematics and management before putting those skills to use in the departments of the Magisterium, serving in whatever role is needed. That’s the purpose of the Temple Schools, to train the next generation of Priests, Priestesses and their assistants, the people who guide the political, religious and military life of the Protectorate.  
  
Some days I might be assigned to cleaning the Grand Temple at the heart of the compound, working with dozens of other girls to clean the great stone floor or metal pews. The Temple itself is a cavernous hall, shorn of most ornamentation and done up in the same Brutalist architecture as the rest of the new compound. Sometimes I wonder about the buildings that were here before all this, but I guess I’ll never know.  
  
Other times I might fetch and carry for one of the Magisterium offices, serving as a secretary or general assistant in the hope that some of the knowledge that passes through those illustrious offices might rub off on me. It’s exhausting in a different way to the cleaning; the work might be less intensive but I’m often the only girl there, and it’s a far more chaotic environment. Still, sometimes they need something from outside the complex, and after a few months they started writing Warrants to let me head out on small errands. I treasure every second of those brief journeys into the city.  
  
My favourite job, though, is the smaller stuff. Cleaning the little shrines, where I’m left alone or paired with one of the girls from my dorm, or helping the Priestesses to conduct ceremonies and rituals, shedding the uniform for bright white robes while I pace around the temple carrying candles or religious symbols. I come to savour those quiet moments of ceremony and tranquillity.  
  
Every night, I spend a while chatting about nothing with my roommates, sharing the latest gossip and swapping around books from the school’s library. I come to love them, as only a sister can love her sisters, and our talks often continue after lights out, when every one of us is supposed to be sleeping. Every morning, I wake up in the same room with the same people and we go about the same routines, taking turns at the sinks in the ablutions to do our teeth and wash our faces.  
  
Every morning, until I don’t.  
  
There’s no warning when it happens. One moment I’m curled up in my blankets, huddled up against the chill, and the next I’m lying on a bare concrete floor, bathed in a harsh white light. I scramble up, each unfamiliar sight sending me crawling backwards until I find my bare skin pressed against a cold concrete wall. I curl up into a ball, looking down at the floor until I can understand it, then slowly up and around the room.  
  
The bunk bed is gone, instead there’s just a small mattress on a metal frame, without even a sheet for warmth. The walls here are bare concrete, with a harsh white light in the ceiling. There’s a grey metal sink ad toilet set into the wall opposite the bed, while the fourth wall is entirely made of glass, with a draw set halfway up it. My eyes focus, and I see a figure on the other side of the glass, a dark-skinned woman wearing a long white coat over a white blouse and skirt.  
  
I scramble to my feet, covering myself with my hands as I step up to the glass wall, while the woman just stares at me. As I get closer, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look terrified, even pitiful, like I’m begging her for answers. There’s something else too, an omega tattooed into my right shoulder blade. I move my hand up to touch it, rubbing at it in the foolish hope that it might come off, before giving up. Through it all, the doctor just stares at me dismissively, as if she’s waiting for me to do something.  
  
I slam my fists against the glass, shouting myself hoarse, accusing her, cursing her, swearing at her, before finally dropping to my knees and begging with my arms outstretched, pleading with her to please let me go! I appeal to her sense of honour, of human decency, of faith and morality.  
  
Through it all she just stands there motionless, until she turns and walks away.


	44. Seeker: 7.01

He doesn’t see it coming. One second, he’s standing in the center of someone’s living room, with twenty guys and gals cross-legged on the floor in front of him, far more people than ought to fit in a room that size. He’s nailed a map of the city to the wall, and he’s taking them through the state of the city, showing them the ever-dwindling territory of the ABB while talking them up through big speeches probably right out of the little red book. One second, he’s in control, two dozen forced conscripts hanging off his every word, and the next he’s not.  
  
I know he doesn’t see it coming ‘cos of the way his eyes don’t widen, and how his screams don’t start just yet. He’s got the light on in there, and it’s dark outside. His attention is on his men, so why would he worry about what’s on the street? That’s what the sentries are for, after all, one on each corner of the row of tenements, and another two on top of the block they’re using. They’d let him know if anything was wrong, if they weren’t currently having a kip. Besides, what can get him on the second floor?  
  
He jumps with fright when the glass shatters, casting a desperate look over to the window while the cross-legged goons try to press themselves against the wall. He tries to scream, only to have that scream crushed out of him as my clawed hand tightens around his ribcage, forcing the air out of his lungs in a single wheeze. I hold him there for a moment, drinking in the fear of the crowd, before hurling him back out onto the street. He’ll live. Probably.  
  
I bring my hands back in, gripping both sides of the window frame and tearing it apart. I press on through the brickwork, ripping through the façade of the building as the conscripts scramble back in terror, not even the walls safe for them. That’s when I feel a weight shifting around on my back as Spitfire scrambles a little further up my shoulders, before sending a jet of liquid fire across the ceiling. These tenements were built on the cheap, to cram in as many bods as possible, and they’re a mess of rotten wood and shoddy workmanship.  
  
The ceiling goes up like a light, and the conscripts really start to panic. That’s my cue to pull back, so I roar at them one last time before letting go of the window and dropping back onto all fours. There’s definitely something to be said for my height, even if it does make doors a bit of a nuisance. I bound back up the street, wanting to leave the conscripts an avenue of escape so they don’t all choke to death on the ash, and Spitfire slips off my shoulders, running down a side alley to where Gregor is waiting to seal the gap behind us.  
  
There are two capes waiting for me a little down the road, shrouded in both real and artificial darkness. There’s no power here, the Army saw to that days ago, but Grue from the Undersiders is adding to the gloom by generating a billowing cloud of darkness behind him, while the skinny girl in grey just stands off to the side, idly thumbing a retractable baton on her belt. I stroll over them, drawing myself up to my full height just behind a parked car, and wait for the floodgates to open, as smoke curls up from the upper floor of the tenement.  
  
They look like a swarm of ants, dozens of people storming out with all sorts of weapons, barreling down the street in a human tide. Some of the lead ones, the ones most dedicated to the ABB’s cause, are carrying pistols, and start sending rounds towards us. The Undersiders scatter, Tattletale and the grey girl diving behind a couple of cars while Grue shrouds himself in darkness. I just stand there as they fire, shitty pistol rounds almost bouncing off my skin. I roar again, almost shaking the windows up and down the street, and kick the car towards them. The owner hadn’t left the handbrake on, probably trying to keep it in good nick, so it rolls down the street as fast as I can kick it.  
  
They dodge it, of course, but they can’t shoot while they’re jumping out of the way, and the red and green sea parts itself. I don’t give them the chance to get back up, leaping in with my tendrils flying. I sweep down dozens at a time, slamming them against the road and giving the end ones a nasty slice with the bladed spike of bone. The Undersiders advance to my right, darting in and amongst the bastards amidst swarms of insects and darkness. Every now and then one of the ABB brings out a gun, and the two Undersiders bruisers are quick to bring those ones down, kicking the guns out of the way.  
  
Any bastard pulls a gun near me, and I crush their hand into the metal, leaving them screaming. That’s the difference between us, I guess. Usually I’m the surgeon, tearing apart tougher opponents with well placed slices and careful maneuvering, but it’s like I’m fighting children. I’m twice as tall as the tallest of these bastards, and that gives me a weight I’m not used to having. It’s kind of fun to play the brute, kicking some poor bugger halfway across the road before picking up his friend by the shoulders and throwing them into a parked car.  
  
The Undersiders are the opposite, both controlling their environment masterfully. Shakers, I think Faultline would call them. They do what I used to do, but by shaping the arena itself rather than controlling the space. I only see the motorcycle fetishist every now and then, brief flashes of taut muscles as he steps in and out of an all-encompassing cloud of darkness, using his fists to take down his blinded enemies. The bug girl is different, almost hesitant, as she swings her own baton. She uses her insects sparingly, sending them in at oblique angles to achieve a subtler degree of control. Together, they’re just about managing to keep up to me.  
  
Some fucker runs up with a sword, so I just grip the blade between my claws and drive the pommel into his shoulder until I can hear his bones crack. The fanatics are all down now, clutching broken and shattered bones, and all that’s left are the real conscripts, the ones who weren’t part of the ABB before Bakuda came knocking. They’ve still got bombs in their spine, though, so they’ll still fight till they’re down for the count. It’s almost pathetic, the way they flail at me with baseball bats, or bits of pipe, or lengths of chain.  
  
Then I remember that they’re stuck here, with no other options but to fight, and part of me feels a little sorry for them.  
  
That’s the point where they turn from an annoyance to a tragedy, so I start to swipe at them too. They take their swings, and I snap their right arms, one by one by one. I try to make the breaks as clean as I can, breaking out the surgeon once again, but there are a couple of them who end up a little worse for wear. Puts them down, though, and it might even be less damaging Grue’s fists to the skull. Doesn’t look it though, and they certainly scream a lot more. Bug girl keeps flashing me a couple of glances, when she isn’t throwing wasps at wannabe samurai, and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s freaked by my look or by all the screaming. You’d think villains would be more open minded about this sort of thing…  
  
It’s getting more than a little silly, just how many of the bastards are pouring out of this one block of flats. They must have been packed in there like sardines! Still, the flow is definitely slowing now, and all the ABB soldiers are well and truly gone. These ones really are the lost and damned; snotty nosed fifteen-year old kids or fifty-year-old bastards who are getting well past their prime. They don’t even have any gang colours on them, nothing to identify them as ABB members apart from the same expression of despair.  
  
That’s when I see a flash of red and green amongst the crowds, and I barrel forwards. The few remaining conscripts get scattered like bowling pins, trampled underfoot or left for the Undersiders to deal with. The fight was fun at first, standing tall against an army of pint-sized bastards, who’d keep swinging until they had no arm to swing with, but there’s no thrill in crippling kids, no rush. All there is left is hate, hate for the so called ‘leader’ who stood back while his human waves did all the fighting. The Captain, to his credit, doesn’t break, instead taking a few potshots at me with a submachine gun; I guess he’s got the same loyalty guarantee everyone else does.  
  
Makes no difference to me, though. The bullets are about as dangerous to me as bug-girl’s wasps. There’s nothing he can do to stop me as I wrap my hand around his torso, before standing up to my full height and holding him face to face, the tip of my thumb pressed against his neck. His eyes are wide with naked terror, and he’s babbling to me in some language I can’t understand. Might be begging me to spare him, might be praying for a merciful death. I don’t much care either way. It would be so easy, as I stand here drinking in his fear. So easy to press a few centimeters in, and end this bastard. Much easier than letting him live, in many ways.  
  
But that’s not how things are done. That’s not how this game is played. Might not be how I’d do things, given half a chance, but I made a promise to Faultline that I’d stick to the rules, that I wouldn’t be the thing that gets us a CTSFO squad bursting down our doors, guns blazing. Instead, I throw him into the wreckage of a car, riddled with gunfire and broken glass. I can see a bead of blood on his throat, from where I got a little too enthusiastic, but he’ll live. He’ll live.  
  
There’s a shout from down the street, as Tattletale verifies that the building’s clear, before Grue calls out to Spitfire and Gregor, who have been dealing with the few ABB goons who tried to run. They jog over to the foot of the tenement block, with smoke still curling out of the uppermost floor, and Spitfire starts… spitting fire. Her burns are controlled and precise, aimed at immolating the structure with minimal risk; Faultline’s been having her read up on arson and firefighting in her spare time, though I get the feeling she’s not too fond of the idea. She’s nervous about her power but, watching her carefully and methodically demolish a whole building, I can’t say it isn’t impressive.  
  
Gregor’s just as careful, as he sprays the neighboring buildings with a fire-retardant gel. They’re being slow and methodical, which leaves me and the Undersiders to drag the groaning goons into various heaps, so that they can be collected by the bin men, presumably. The Undersiders have pulled out small first aid kits, and are patching up the cuts and lacerations. The broken bones are left where they are, I guess someone like Panacea makes that sort of thing a little less important. Must be nice having some bullshit miracle healer working in your city.  
  
I grab a couple of prone guys by the legs, dragging them over to the rest and ignoring the groans as they clutch their wounded arms. The bug-girl is already with a couple of the other conscripts, her face shifting between a shattered arm and me as she moves about zip-tying limbs together. I just look at her quizzically, before unceremoniously dumping my two passengers at her feet. I travel back and forth a few more times, with the bug girl shooting me funny glances every step of the way.  
  
Part of me wants to pin her down and just scream into her face. I’m doing the best I fucking can, you judgmental bitch! Not all of us have bullshit superpowers that are practically designed for non-lethal combat! I’ve got fucking knives on my fingers, what the fuck else am I supposed to do?  
  
I don’t, though, because we’re supposed to be cooperative. Besides, from the way Tattletale’s leering at me, I think she already knows just how I feel. Still, I won’t have to deal with them for much longer. The poor wounded scum are all bandaged up, a very early Christmas present for the fuzz, which means it’s time for us to leave. The tenement is entirely collapsed now, and Gregor’s poured more gel on to smother the embers.  
  
“We’re done, let’s move!”  
  
Grue’s shout cuts through the creaking of the collapsed building as it settles, and we all set off at a jog down the street. Well, everyone else sets off at a jog. I’m keeping up with them at only a lumbering walk on all fours. After a bit, we break away from the Undersiders as they go to find their own way past the military cordon. All that’s left is to call it in and get home. Gregor thumbs 999 into his phone, but he’s still jogging so I connect to the call with Cranial’s affinity device, the same feature that lets me link up to our radio network.  
  
“911, what’s your emergency?”  
  
My voice doesn’t sound like I’m running, but then why would it? I’m not exactly using my lungs here…  
  
“The spoils of war!”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
She sounds a little more interested now, or is that a little more annoyed? Hard to tell over the phone.  
  
“We’ve got about sixty odd ABB fuckers tied up in a big heap in the Jefferson Estate. More than we know what to do with, if I’m being honest guv. So why don’t you get your bruiseboys into your paddy wagons and take them off our hands, eh?”  
  
“Who is this, who’s speaking?”  
  
I drop my voice down to a menacing growl.  
  
“Well, to be honest luv. I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”  
  
I stop talking, and wave to Gregor to hang up on them. We’ve reached out exfil point, an old store with a wall missing in the basement to let us get at the sewers. Out of nowhere, Spitfire bursts into laughter, slapping the palm of her hand against my flank.  
  
“God. You are such a bitch.”  
  
I flash her a grin, full of my pearly whites.  
  
“I know. And you love me for it.”  
  
We disappear into the sewers, heading right under the military cordon, with all its guns and armour, and stepping out into the plant room of an empty swimming pool a few hundred meters from the Palanquin, washing the last of the sewer off ourselves in the pool’s showers. Faultline would throw a fit if we tracked shit into her club, and Mr Abernathy would kill us.  
  
Newter’s waiting for us when we get back, sprawled out on his usual couch with his shirt off, and a well-made dressing on his shoulder. He’d looked like a right berk when we got back from the last job; some ninja bastard had stabbed him with a knife, a deep wound just below his shoulderblade. Apparently, the rest of his team were a little short on bandages, as they sent him to us wrapped in sanitary pads. I gave him no end of shit for that, but Faultline was quick to see him checked over by an actual doctor with great big rubber gloves, and his dressing was replaced with something a lot more professional.  
  
He’ll be fine, though. Apparently, he heals up a lot faster than a baseline human.  
  
“Welcome back!” He leans back on the sofa, spreading his arms out in a welcoming gesture. I move over to my pillow pile and settle myself down, not ready to go in the tank quite yet.  
  
“So… How was it out there?”  
  
I snort.  
  
“Started out great. Ripped some bastard straight out of a second story window, then the rest of them came out of the place like a hoard of ants. Was nice to be able to cut loose, to actually stand up when I’m fighting rather than crawling all the fucking time.”  
  
“Aww. Don’t beat yourself up about it; you’re just big boned!”  
  
I flip two fingers up to him, and he just laughs it off.  
  
“Anyway, that was fun. Thing is, though, the conscripts just kept coming, and they just got worse and worse. By the end of it I was breaking kids and old men, and all the while I had that judgmental bitch from the Undersiders staring daggers at me.”  
  
He leans forward a little in his chair.  
  
“Who, Tattletale?”  
  
Another snort, this time with more contempt.  
  
“Nah, she hung back. Not much use against an enemy she can’t talk down.”  
  
“Bitch?”  
  
That one takes me a second to figure out.  
  
“No, and that still has to be the stupidest fucking name I’ve ever heard. I mean the bug girl.”  
  
Newter laughs, wincing a little as he moves his shoulder.  
  
“Who, Skitter?” He looks at me incredulously. “We talking about the same girl here? Controls bugs, sort of creepy?”  
  
“Yeah, what’s so funny?”  
  
His grin has gotten positively wolfish now.  
  
“Okay, I was out for a lot of my fight, but I flirted a little with Sundancer afterwards. She wasn’t interested, but she did tell me about what she saw during the fight. They had Lung beat, and Skitter goes over with a knife and straight up gouges the fucker’s eyes out!”  
  
I just can’t help myself, I burst into laughter and Newter joins me soon after. We just laugh and laugh about the absurdity of the whole thing, until Faultline comes up to bitch about the noise. Doesn’t stop us getting a few chuckles out of her too.


	45. Seeker: 7.02

They say people deal with tragedy in different ways, that it depends on who they are as a person, and the environment they find themselves in. People count deaths less the more of them there are, and the more frequent a loss the less each one starts to sting.  
  
These people, this whole bloody planet, deals with shit like this all the time. They lose a whole city three times a year, so regular you could set your watch to it, and even when that’s not happening there are gangs roaming the streets, and bands of serial killers out in the hills. They’re not numb to death, I don’t think anyone gets numb to death, but they are used to it. Might not always be close, might be news on the other side of the world, but they know it happens. So, they’ve got two ways to react.  
  
They can lose it, start waving around signs proclaiming the end of the world. There are a few that do that, apparently. Some doomsday cult who go around worshiping the monsters or the golden man, or just pour into established faiths looking for any answer they can get. I guess that’s probably also what drives a lot of people to the gangs. There’s something to be said for being the person wearing the boot, rather than the person getting stamped on. When your whole world revolves around predators, you might as well try and be the bird that cleans the crocodile’s teeth.  
  
Most people aren’t like that, though. They don’t have the strength, or they have too much of it. They put their heads down, try to pretend like everything’s normal, and move on from the tragedy, faster and faster every time. What does the end of the world matter when there’s bills to pay or mouths to feed? What does it matter when there are so many more important things weighing them down, the things that are important to them, not the world? Just Keep Calm and Carry On.  
  
Take this whole Bakuda thing. Every now and then something like this would kick down back home, off in some tinpot dictatorship or third-world shithole. Some bastards with a cause and a stockpile of guns would take over their shitty little slum, usually burning all the bitek and killing anyone with an Affinity Neuron Symbiont, or even anyone who’s ever received gene-tailoring. They’d set up shop with flags and prayer meetings and all that other kum by ya shit. Thing is, it’d take weeks for the shitty local military to dig the fuckers out, fighting tooth and nail through pipe bombs or landmines or pilfered fucking nerve gas.  
  
Lot of the stuff I’ve seen over the past four days has been the same sort of shit I used to see on the news, when it was on in the background of a pub and I wasn’t too busy doing something or someone else. It was the same bombed out streets, the same wrecked cars by the side of the road, even similar-looking soldiers for all the difference sixty years’ worth of technology makes. But it’s ended, the ABB are done for, and the world’s going back to normal.  
  
That’s why the staff are back in the Palanquin, why they’re rolling up the mats that protected the dance floor and packing away the tables everyone used to plan the war. The victory’s here, and the Palanquin will be there to meet it with free admission, a line ‘round the block and overpriced drinks freshly stocked behind the bar. I’m helping to make this happen in my own small way by picking up the rolled plastic mats and taking them down to the basement, doing the work of at least six of the beefiest bouncers, where they can rest amongst the long-term freezers, the emergency medical supplies and the armored covers for the windows and doors. Part of me wondered why Faultline has enough supplies to turn this place into a fortress if she wanted to, with an armory’s worth of weaponry tucked away in the secure room upstairs. Then I realized that was a stupid question.  
  
The mat gets tossed down with its fellows, and I repeat the trip six times until the spike-friendly covering is all stowed away, and the staff can subject the dance floor to a vigorous polishing, to keep that glossy sheen. It’s a bitch to clean, apparently, having to be redone every morning with how scuffed it gets during the night, but there’s something to be said for the way the ceiling lights get reflected off the glossy black surface, casting interesting shadows around the room. Still, this is the part where they want me to quietly get out of the way. I might be able to stand up straight in the main club, but I’m still a bit too big to work around and I think everyone’s terrified I’ll step on the expensive surface, ruining it with my spiked talons.  
  
So I make myself scarce, squeezing myself up the narrow staircase to the VIP area, with its robust carpeting and abundance of soft things, and nod to the Crew. Not the whole crew, Gregor’s out somewhere and Faultline’s in her office, but Newter, Emily and Elle are all taking advantage of the empty club to sprawl out on the sofas. Right now, though, they’re all huddled around Emily’s laptop. Well, the laptop is on Elle’s knees and they’re all huddled around her, which is almost as good.  
  
Newter grins at me, before calling out across the room.  
  
“Hey Sonnie, you got to see this!”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
Emily’s smiling, but there’s maybe a hint of concern behind it. Newter doesn’t answer me, just flashing a cocky grin, so I squeeze myself between the sofa and the wall to get a look over their shoulders. It goes without saying that there’d be plenty of space for anyone other than me. Still, I can just about fit myself in and lower myself down so that my head is resting between the girls’ shoulders.  
  
They’re looking through the local news, some big article on the front page of a website mocked up to look like a newspaper. Stupid idea if you ask me; print media is dead anyway, so why not commit yourself to digital? The headline is mocked up in an old-style font, with VILLAINS STEP IN done up in bold, right across the top.  
  
That’s not what matters, though. What matters is the massive photograph that tops the main body of the article. It’s from last night, probably taken from one of the other buildings on the street, unless the Undersiders did it to spread the word. The backdrop is almost entirely taken up by the tenement, flames billowing from the second and third floor providing the only source of light. Grue and Skitter are mid-combat in the foreground, bugs and clouds of darkness swirling around them, That’s not what matters either, not compared to the twelve-foot beauty standing tall in front of the building, a struggling silhouette held up by one hand, her clawed thumb poised to sever his artery.  
  
“That’s beautiful. I want to print it out and pin it to my wall.”  
  
Newter laughs, but Emily looks a little uneasy.  
  
“You’re not worried? It’s not exactly low profile…”  
  
Emily’s looking right into my eye, concern evident on her face. Not sure the profile is what she’s worried about.  
  
“Neither am I, in case you haven’t noticed. Everyone who matters already knows we’re in the city, and a lot of them probably know we’re here. What’s one more photo to add to the pile?”  
  
“I guess…”  
  
Her eyes flit away from me, resting on the laptop for a brief moment before turning downcast to the floor.  
  
“Emily. What’s eating you?”  
  
Newter’s blessedly quiet as Emily just stares off into space for a few moments.  
  
“I don’t know if I can keep this up. I don’t mind fighting, or I think I don’t, but all the violence got a little much last night.”  
  
“All my violence?”  
  
“Yeah,” she winces, like she’s admitted some horrible secret.  
  
I move my head back a little, resting on the sofa itself rather than hovering in between their shoulders.  
  
“I’m not going to lie to you and say I didn’t enjoy last night. I’m a giant in a world of midgets, and it feels nice to cut loose every once in a while. I could stand up straight, could throw my weight around without worrying about denting the walls. I liked the fight, because it felt like I was free.”  
  
“You hurt a lot of people, Sonnie,” her words aren’t reproachful, just a statement of fact.  
  
“Yeah. I did. I enjoyed it too, at first. They just kept coming, and I could just bat them aside. It was a blast, until they ran out of healthy bodies. The kids hit me hard, same with the old geezers that came out with them. They weren’t going to hold back on me, not with those bombs in their heads, and I couldn’t hold back on them either. I realized that I didn’t have any other way of bringing them down except to hurt them. This body was built to kill, and I made myself into a killer. I’m not proud of what I made myself, Emily, but I’m not going to deny responsibility.”  
  
“Yeah. Okay.”  
  
She fidgets a little, and things sort of stay in that awkwardness for a while. Eventually Newter gets us onto other topics, showing us funny shit he’s found online, or telling us about stuff the Crew got up to before any of us joined, back when it was just Faultline, Newter and Gregor taking whatever jobs they could get while staying independent. Soon enough the music from the club starts up, and Emily leads Elle away from the loud music, into the marginally better soundproofed top floor.  
  
I stick around, curling up on my pillow pile and just waiting for the dance floor to fill up below us, as the music starts to pick up and somebody switches on the fancy overhead lights. Groups of girls, and the odd male hanger-on, get brought up every now and then, sitting round and chatting with Newter, the young lad doing his best to impress them while they feign interest. No, maybe that’s a little unfair. These people love their cape gossip, after all, and Newter’s far from the worst looking person here. He could probably even pull a couple of them if he put the effort in, but I think he gets that isn’t an option. Some people say you can have a perfectly intimate relationship without touching your partner. I don’t agree myself, but Newter doesn’t exactly have much of a choice in the matter.  
  
He’s quite good at judging how long he can keep the girls talking before reaching the limit of their patience. Then he takes out a spoon from a whole packet of cheap plastic ones, better to use something disposable after that one guy used a glass for vodka without checking it had been cleaned, and sends the darlings off to sleepy land, sprawled out across the sofas like some weirdly upmarket crack house.  
  
Newter shouts down the stairs, and the bouncer picks another couple of girls to send up. Seems these two come as a pair, but it doesn’t look like they started that way. The one slightly in front has dark hair, with sharp features and a neat white dress that hugs her in all the right places. She takes one look around the room, grinning a little at Newter and looking more than a little starstruck at me.  
  
Please tell me she’s not a fucking groupie. Sure, I used to get a few once the public figured out I swung that way, and the odd hopeful one before that, but I don’t think I’m ready for the insanity of cape groupies.  
  
It’s almost a relief when the other girl looks at me with a hint of fear. She doesn’t fit in with the elegant black-haired woman at all. For one, she’s definitely a girl; I’d eat my hat if she’s a day over seventeen. Kind of worrying she got in here, come to think of it, but I guess Newter could do with hanging out with some people his age. To her credit, she manages to get over her fear pretty quick. Seems her normal personality, or the one she’s putting on, would best be described as ‘bubbly’, in case the blue lipstick and pink highlights in her hair didn’t make it obvious.  
  
“Hello ladies!” Newter spreads his arms wide. “Welcome to the real Palanquin!”  
  
Bubbles, for want of a better name, overcomes her fears and steps forward, looking around the VIP area.  
  
“I like it. The sleeping girls really give it character.”  
  
“I know, right? Come on, sit down. Plenty of couch space left. Name’s Newter, in case it wasn’t obvious.”  
  
“Laura,” the dark-haired girl says as she sits down, just to the left of Newter but not close enough to be touching.  
  
“Mary,” bubbles holds out her hand for a handshake, but Newter just chuckles.  
  
“Well you’re eager, aren’t you? Surely you can stay a while, chat for a bit?”  
  
“Oh, right,” she giggles, “sorry about that.”  
  
“No big.”  
  
They start chatting about all sorts, mostly Newter asking about what they do when they aren’t looking for highs in hot nightclubs. They fall into a surprisingly easy rhythm for three people who’ve never met before, but then I guess Newter does do this a lot. Faultline comes up through the back way, and stops to chat for a while about anything and nothing, mostly because Newter cajoled her into it. They leave me out of it, and I’m happy just lazing about, but ever now and then I catch Laura throwing the odd look my way. Eventually, she can’t contain her curiosity any longer.  
  
“Sorry, but I just have to ask about the elephant in the room.”  
  
I snort, and Newter full on laughs.  
  
“Oh yeah. Don’t worry about Sonnie, she’s just hanging out on her own ‘cos she got on the front page. Thinks she’s too good for us now.”  
  
“I am too good for you,” I call out across the room.  
  
“Wait. Sonnie? I thought you were called Khanivore.”  
  
“Oops,” Newter mutters.  
  
I laugh and lumber onto all fours, pacing across the room while stepping carefully around the sleeping figures.  
  
“You’ve done it now, Newter. You’ve revealed my secret identity. Now we have to kill them.”  
  
Newter gives off an exaggerated sigh.  
  
“Well, you heard her. Sorry about this, girls.”  
  
“That’s fair. Just make mine quick, okay?” Laura says, leaning forward from the sofa while batting her eyelashes at me.  
  
What the fuck is wrong with this girl? Still, I guess I’m stuck in this conversation now.  
  
“Anyway. Like I was saying, you’d be surprised the kind of people we run into on our jobs…”  
  
Conversation follows a predictable path after that, with Newter regaling them with the story of our Philadelphia job, as Chevalier and Myrddin are apparently ‘Big Deals’ in the cape community. I step in now and then, to back him up on the more unbelievable claims. For some reason, they’re both more willing to take my word than Newter’s.  
  
Gregor comes up the stairs, drawing out attention away from the conversation, and pulls the hood of his jacket down.  
  
“Gregor, my boy!” Newter practically shouts as he grins from ear to ear. The man himself just stays silent for a few seconds, before pulling a greasy paper-wrapped sandwich from a carrier bag and walking over.  
  
“I brought you dinner,” he hands Newter the sandwich, and pulls out an extra-large pack of beef jerky for me. I’ve already eaten my proper meal, but the snack is a nice touch.  
  
“Cheers mate. Just what the doctor ordered.”  
  
He nods at me as Newter pipes up.  
  
“Good man! Pull up a chair!”  
  
“The others will want their food as well.”  
  
Newter looks like he’s about to disagree, but then his eyes seem to flit between his gradually cooling toasted sandwich and me.  
  
“I get it. These are really good sandwiches, and there’s already two badass mercs for these two stunning girls.”  
  
Newter, no. This isn’t helping. For fuck sake, don’t give her ideas.  
  
“Still, you could at least say hi to Laura and Mary. That would be the polite thing to do.”  
  
Gregor smiles at that, but he’s nothing if not a gentleman.  
  
“Laura, Mary. It is nice to meet you, but I am afraid I cannot stay and talk. Enjoy your night.”  
  
“I intend to,” Laura says, her eyes quickly darting up and down Gregor. Fuck sake, she’s checking him out? How low can you go?  
  
“Anyway…” Newter says as he fishes down the side of the sofa for the packet of plastic spoons, “here you go. You’ve been wonderful company.”  
  
He takes a pipette out of his pocket, putting a few drops onto the spoon before sticking his tongue on it, giving Mary a look as he does.  
  
“That’s all?” Laura asks, with something approaching disappointment.  
  
“It’s enough,” Newter reassures her. “Any more and you might be out for an inconvenient amount of time. That right there is a little less than an hour of psychedelic tripping. No hangover, no side effects, it’s not addictive, and you can’t overdose on it. Trust me, I’ve tried to make someone overdose before, combat situation, and I couldn’t make it happen.”  
  
He’s said much the same words to every other girl up here, a little boilerplate reassurance right at the end. Mary goes out like a light, but Laura holds off as she scribbles something on the back of a receipt, before reaching over and impaling it on one of my antennae.  
  
“Hey. My number. If you want to talk, or, y’know, something else.”  
  
She pops the spoon in her mouth, holding it there for a tantalizing second, before winking at me and slumping over unconscious.  
  
“Damn, you’re smooth. Hardly said a thing to her and yet she’s all over you.”  
  
“Yeah, somehow I don’t think my voice is what she was interested in. Face facts, Newter, I’m a fucking tentacle monster. Whatever she sees in me, isn’t exactly what I’d call healthy. Trust me, I’m an expert in unhealthy relationships.”  
  
He looks her up and down, like he's looking for some kind of secret freak ring or something, before turning back to me.  
  
“Maybe she likes you for your personality, for who you are underneath?”  
  
“Who I am is a brute. You saw how she reacted when I talked about killing her. She is a Freak with a capital F.”  
  
He leant back on the sofa, still in between the two unconscious girls.  
  
“I dunno. I guess I’d take that chance, if I could.”  
  
“You’re big on living in the now, aren’t you? Damn the consequences?”  
  
He grins at me, wild and manic.  
  
“Only way to live,” his smile fades a little, and he reaches over to take a swig from an abandoned drink.  
  
“I used to think about my past a lot. Who I was before all this,” his tail waves over his orange body. “I’d wonder if there was some family out there, worrying about their lost boy. I got over it, stopped worrying about that sort of thing, and then you came along. It used to be nice to think that there were people out there who knew me, even if I’d never know them, but now I know they might not be here at all. They’re on some other world that I’ll never get to see, and this might not even be my world.”  
  
He sighs, downing the rest of the drink.  
  
“So why think about all that? If there’s one thing I know it’s that I can’t trust my memory to hold forever. It happened once already, right? Better to live in the now, take every moment like it’s the first day of your life. All this,” his hand swept out to take in the VIP room, “wasn’t real a few hours ago, and it won’t be real tomorrow, but it is right now. That’s all that matters.”  
  
He stands up, shouting down the stairs, before greeting a trio of girls with his arms wide and a smile on his face.


	46. Seeker: 7.03

Above the dance floor, separated from the writhing masses atop his podium, the DJ switches songs with a detached air, cranking up the volume until the very glass in the windows seems to shake beneath my palm. He reaches out with his right arm, flicking a few switches and turning a dial to the right, and the overhead lighting brightens and dims, swinging wildly to cast the room in a series of spotlights, before merging light and dark in a strobing rhythm that moves with the beat. Light reflects off the glossy walls of the Palanquin, off the crystal bottles of colored liquid set behind the bar, off the polished sheen of the dance floor, flickering intermittently in the small spaces between clubbers. The air is filled with dry ice, and great beams of light, and the atmosphere seems to crackle with electricity.  
  
On the dance floor, on the sofas and booths or the stools before the bar, people fill the space not as separate individuals, but part of the whole. Part of the Palanquin. Their clothes are a riot of colour, skimpy cocktail dresses in blue, red, black or green, collared shirts worn untucked with the sleeves rolled up by the elbow, leather jackets covered in studs that flash in the light like a human mirror ball, and everything in between. It’s a mess, a riot of colour and styles, punk and classic and eighties revival, but somehow it all seems to work. Somehow the mess comes together, until there’s no styles or people, just a sea of colour cast in the same light.  
  
The VIP room is above all that, above even the gantry for the glistening lights. None of them can see us from down there, even if they did look up, but I can see all of them. I’m peering out the window, so close as to almost have my eye pressed against it, with my hand resting on the glass to feel the vibrations of the sounds. I can hear it just fine, no amount of double-glazing can keep that din out, but I like to feel the beat, to feel like I’m part of it. The club floor’s off limit to us during operating hours. Sure, it’s an open secret that we’re here, but there’s no reason for us to push our luck.  
  
Doesn’t help that I’d be a bull in a china shop down there, barreling my way through the crowd in a flurry of broken bones. I can’t lose myself to the crowd the way I used to, just letting them carry me along to the point where I could forget my broken body and just exist in the moment, without fears or doubts. I used to love places like this, places that felt alive and helped me feel alive. Those were good nights, losing my mind on the floor, and my head through booze, then staggering out of there with a girl on my arm, and spending the night rutting like animals in front of my tank.  
  
The nights were great, but the mornings were shit. I’d wake up in the wrong body, and have to force myself back into Sonnie, force myself to act kind or dismissive or angry, rather than just doing nothing at all. I’d have to make small talk over breakfast, endure Wes and Ivrina grinning and winking at each other while my date for the night desperately tried to hope it was something more than it was. She’d pretend not to be disappointed when I gathered up her things and said my goodbyes, and I’d pretend to be apologetic about the whole thing.  
  
I guess I was like Newter, chasing sensations in the moment without worrying about the before or after. I wanted to fuck, so I fucked. Didn’t matter that she might have had higher hopes going in, or that I’d have to deal with the tortuous morning after. I’d do the same in the next town, and the next, just carrying on as I was without a care in the bloody world! Maybe I knew that things would end up the same way, that the high wouldn’t really be worth the lows, but I just didn’t care. Maybe I’m different now, but maybe I just don’t have the same opportunities I used to. My night on the town proved that.  
  
“Yo! You gonna mope at the window all night?”  
  
Speaking of Newter…  
  
The VIP rooms shifted a bit now; we’ve been at this for a while. Some of the earlier girls have come down from their high, and staggered out supporting each other. Apparently, there’s no side effects, but they’re always a little groggy when they come to. Not eager to stick around, either, but that’s probably more to do eith us than the drugs. The next couple, or couple of friends, are coming up now. A young woman, blonde, with delicate features and a long neck, leans in the doorway for a second, a shapely red dress hugging her dancer’s frame. Her head is in profile, looking down the stairs, and the reason soon becomes apparent.  
  
Two of the bouncers, big burly ex-dockers named Mike and Todd, are next to come up, carrying a girl in a wheelchair between them. They set her down in the VIP area, and Todd immediately starts making apologetic noises towards her.  
  
“Sorry about that, miss, but all we have is a cargo lift in the backrooms. This place isn’t as accessible as it ought to be.”  
  
The auburn-haired girl smiles up at them, her face the textbook example of weary patience.  
  
“It’s fine. Thank you very much for your help.”  
  
She’s a little average-looking, leaning more towards cute than pretty, and her plain blue dress is riding up her thin legs, atrophied through long disuse. There’s a weary smile on her face as she looks up at her friend, which turns into a confused look as she takes in the room. The blonde, on the other hand, just grins and cocks her eyebrow.  
  
“What is this, some kind of sex den? What’s with all the sleeping women?”  
  
For once, Newter’s usual cool fails him. His face falls, and his arms drop back down to his sides.  
  
“Do you… Do you not know? Why’d you come up here?”  
  
The blonde grins, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her eyes.  
  
“It’s the VIP area, of course we wanted to get in. It sounded like a cool idea, but I have to say we’re not down for the whole ‘drugged and kidnapped thing’, if that’s what you’re going for.”  
  
I just can’t help myself, I burst into laughter and step back from the window, moving to clap a hand on Newter’s shoulder before thinking better for it.  
  
“Well who’d’ve thunk it? The first people who actually come up here for the company, and you’ve got nothing to say.”  
  
That seems to snap him out of his funk, and he manages to close his gaping mouth.  
  
“Right, sorry, manners. Name’s Newter. You may remember me from such powers as psychedelic sweat, which is what all these other people came up here for,” his arms sweep out to take in the harem of comatose girls.  
  
“Oh, and this walking blender is Sonnie,” he says, almost as an afterthought, “don’t worry about her, she’s nice. Like how big dogs are always a lot more chill than the small ones.”  
  
“It’s called natural confidence, you jumpy bastard. Comes with being the baddest bitch in the room.”  
  
Another cocky grin from the blonde, and a small grin from her friend.  
  
“Neat. I’m Marissa, but everyone calls me Mars. The wallflower here is Jess.”  
  
Said wallflower leans over in her chair to elbow her friend in the thigh. Neither of them has shown any discomfort over our appearances, indeed they seemed more shocked by the other girls than by the bright orange kid and, well, me.  
  
“Neat. Why don’t we enjoy the real benefits of the VIP room, the open bar?” he thumbs over his shoulder, pointing towards the small wooden bar set up in the corner, with a rack of spirits and a few fridges of bottled beers.  
  
“I’m gonna need to ask you to get the drinks, if that’s alright. I don’t want to rub off on the glasses and send you to sleep, while Sonnie…”  
  
“Has knives for hands,” Mars retorts, “I get it.”  
  
She steps over to the bar, nimbly moving around and over the sleeping figures even in her high heels. She has perfect balance, and her hips sway from side to side as she walks. Me and Jess sit around one of the tables, neither of us using the seats, while Newter goes over to point Mars to the right drinks.  
  
“Yo Sonnie, Jess, what you want?”  
  
“Vodka shandy!”  
  
Jess is looking a little confused at that, even as she asks for her own drink. She doesn’t ask, but I decide to explain anyway. I know what it’s like to be the odd one out at a club, so I might as well make the effort to include her.  
  
“You know how a shandy is half beer, half lemonade?” she nods, so I continue. “Well, I can’t drink beer. Medical reasons, you understand. So a vodka shandy is half a pint of lemonade, mixed with half a pint of vodka,”  
  
“Jesus!”  
  
I chuckle at her shocked expression.  
  
“Oh, come off it. You got to think that I’m quite a bit bigger than you, so proportionally it’s not that bad. Like a shot, really.”  
  
“Sure…”  
  
She doesn’t sound like she believes me. I mean, being fair, it’s not strictly true. A robust liver wasn’t exactly high on our list of priorities, after all, but forgive me for wanting to impress the only two people I’ve met all night who haven’t been here just for Newter’s tongue.  
  
Mars comes back, four tall glasses in her hand. The three half-pint mixed drinks look a little piddly next to my bubbling clear concoction, but they’ve been embellished a little with some slices of lemon, and Jess’s drink sctually has a small paper umbrella in it. I didn’t even know we had those.  
  
I pick up my drink, carefully so as not to damage the glass, and take a sip, marveling at how the vodka mixes with the lemonade to create a kick not entirely unlike being hit by a brick that’s had a thin slice of lemon wrapped around it, before kicking off the conversation.  
  
“So what brings you out tonight? Celebrating the end of the ABB, or just looking to get pissed?”  
  
Mars leans back in her chair, swirling her Long Island iced tea in her hand but not drinking it yet.  
  
“Kind of? We just got a bit of free time, for the first time in forever, so I decided to get away from work for a while, and dragged Jess with me for moral support. That, and she really needs to get out more.”  
  
“Thanks, Mars…”  
  
“I mean it!” she pouts, “this kind of stuff is good for you!”  
  
Jess starts to laugh, a few drops slipping from her own drink.  
  
“Right! Sitting in an attic with two cape mercenaries, surrounded by drugged-up girls. Exactly what a healthy evening should be.”  
  
“Hey,” Newter pipes up from across the table, “this room is way nicer than an attic!”  
  
More laughter, more easy conversation, and gradually everyone starts to relax as strangers become friends.  
  
“Work keeping you busy, is it?”  
  
“A little,” Jess smiles, but it’s a little strained.  
  
“We move around a lot,” Mars explains, “never really stay in one place. If we’re not working, then we’re usually travelling. Now’s nice, though. Looks like we might be staying here for a while.”  
  
“That’s good. I used to travel quite a lot back in my pit fighting days, and it does drain you after a while.”  
  
“That’s a thing that happens?” Jess asks me, “Parahuman fighting rings?”  
  
Ah yeah. Got to keep my cover.  
  
“Yeah. Back when I lived in the UK, I made my living through illegal pit fights. We went all up and down the country in a convoy of lorries and caravans. Wasn’t quite a different town every night, but it wasn’t far off.”  
  
“What was it like, fighting?” Jess is seriously interested now, maybe she’s a cape groupie, or has a lot of repressed anger.  
  
“Thrill of a lifetime,” I take another sip of my drink, feeling the kick on my tongue.  
  
“There’s nothing that compares to it. The rush of adrenaline as the roar of the crowd builds louder and louder. That little bit of showboating at the start, playing to the crowd and knowing that they love you. Then the announcer drops his arm, and all that stuff just fades away. There’s just the fight, the purity of it. The struggle for supremacy between two titans, dodging between lumbering blows while darting in to slice at their tendons. The fear, the blood, the risk of death.”  
  
“Death?”  
  
Shit. Um. Hang on…  
  
“Not that anyone was actually going to die, of course, but that doesn’t stop the way your body feels. That instinctive reaction to danger.”  
  
Okay, I think that worked. Now I just need to distract them.  
  
“Anyway, I get what you mean about travelling. It’s a lot nicer now.”  
  
Mars, mid sip, sets her drink down, a confused expression on her face.  
  
“What do you mean? I though you guys took jobs all over the country?”  
  
“Well yeah,” Newter responds after necking back his drink, “but we always come back here. The Palanquin is home, and it’s nice knowing that it’ll always be here when we get back. I’m sure you feel the same about home.”  
  
Both of their smiles turn false, and Jess hangs her head.  
  
“Home is… Home is a little out of reach for us. We’re not getting back there anytime soon.”  
  
Part of me wants to know why, but I’m smarter than that. Three cities destroyed every year. I’m sure they have something to mourn and I’m not about to bring up any old wounds.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay.”  
  
Mars fidgets a little as the silence fills the room, before speaking again.  
  
“Listen, it’s been fun, but we might head back down. Thanks for the free drinks.”  
  
“Hang on a second,” Newter interjects, a pleading expression on his face, “I don’t want to leave things with my foot in my mouth. Look, I know you didn’t come up here for a little nap, but I’d like to make the offer anyway, to make things right. It’s not addictive, and you’ll be back up in less than an hour. It’s probably healthier than that horrible cocktail you’ve been drinking.”  
  
There’s a pleading smile on his face, and a silent conversation passes between the two women. Eventually, Mars leans forwards, a grin on her face.  
  
“Doing drugs in a stranger’s attic? Mom would hate this. I’m in, but if I wake up with one less kidney then I’m coming back and burning this place to the ground.”  
  
“I’ll give it a try,” Jess says, a little more hesitantly.  
  
"Alright," Newter says as he pulls out his pack of spoons, adding the drops of water before dipping his tongue in. Mars takes her immediately, knocking it back like a shot and ending up sprawled ungracefully across the sofa. Jess is a little hesitant, looking over to me.  
  
“Um. If I fall asleep in my wheelchair, then I usually wake up with horrid cramps. Can you move me onto one of the couches?”  
  
I smile at her, moving up slowly so as not to freak her out, and scoop her up into a princess carry.  
  
“I got just the thing. This is my pillow pile, my own little heap of softness. Should do you fine.”  
  
I gingerly set her down onto the heap of pillows, on the sort of ridge that’s formed around the spot where I’ve been lying. She looks up at me, and takes a spoon from Newter.  
  
“This is really comfortable. Thanks, Sonnie.”  
  
She puts her spoon in her mouth, and drifts off to sleep.  
  
“You’re welcome.”  
  
We’re alone again, surrounded by sleepers and with only the booming music of the club breaking the silence. Me and Newter just stand there for a while, neither of us willing to go and shout down the stairs for more girls, until we hear footsteps pounding down the stairs to the Crew’s floor.  
  
Spitfire darts down, her skinny jeans and sleeveless top contrasting with the gas mask she must have thrown over her face for secret identity reasons. She didn’t need to; we’re the only conscious people down here.  
  
“Faultline says get up here.”  
  
I nod, and follow her up the stairs with Newter close behind me. Once we’re back in privacy, she pulls the mask off her face and idly tosses it into her room as we pass. Melanie’s waiting for us in the lounge, with Gregor and Elle already sitting on the sofas. The moment Newter and Emily sit down, she waves a hand at the TV.  
  
“We need to leave, and soon.”  
  
The news is showing footage from some ongoing crisis, a live feed of a bunch of hostages standing around fearfully, with what looks like half the fucking Protectorate facing off against the Undersiders.  
  
“What the fuck happened?” I ask.  
  
“The heroes decided to hold a little fundraiser to celebrate the defeat of the ABB. The Undersiders decided to disrupt the event,” Melanie states, matter of factly.  
  
“What the hell can they possibly hope to gain?” my confusion seeps into my voice, it just doesn’t make sense.  
  
“They claim it’s retribution for the PRT minimizing the villains’ contribution to the fight,” sarcasm drips off her every word, “but that doesn’t fit their MO. Grue is weird about reputation, but he’s not an idiot.”  
  
“Then why attack?” Gregor asks.  
  
“They have a backer, and he’s finally making his play.”  
  
“Coil.”  
  
I spit the word, thinking back to the skinny bastard at Somer’s rock, who played Kaiser like a fiddle. He reminded me far too much of Dicko.  
  
“Exactly. With the Undersiders, the Travelers and his mercenaries he has enough forces to take on the Empire Eight Eight.”  
  
“So you’re taking us out of the city before a second gang war can kick off,” Emily muses.  
  
“Yes. Frankly, we’d need to leave soon anyway, but this accelerates out schedule. I won’t say more now, but my investigators have uncovered a lead on the Case-53s. We leave for the South tomorrow morning, so enjoy tonight. It’ll be the last one here for a while.”  
  
“Hang on,” Newter scrambles forwards, “what’s this about a lead?”  
  
“I don’t have time to explain now. I’m sorry, but I need to get back on the phone to my investigators and fixers, coordinate this early departure. I’ll tell you as soon as I can.”  
  
That doesn’t entirely pacify Newter, he looks more than a little pensive, but he does quiet down. Faultline disappears off into her office, and Gregor, Newter and Elle head back to their rooms. Me and Newter move back to the club, both having similar ideas about how to spend the time, only to be distracted by what sounds like something hammering against glass. I motion for Newter to get out the way, which he does by hopping onto the ceiling, and pace down the stairs, ready for a fight.  
  
What I see is a little winged thing banging off the window like a confused insect. It looks like a harpy, with bird wings instead of arms, legs that have an extra knee and end in talons, and a coating of fluff over a nude female torso, with feathered hair coming down to mid-shoulder. The whole creature is two feet tall, and puts me in mind of a pigeon I once saw fly into a window because it thought it wasn’t there.  
  
I step forward to it, cautiously, and reach out with a hand. It flaps around me for a few moments, before perching itself on my shoulder and leaning dazed against my head. I look around the room, as Newter steps in behind me, and weigh my options.  
  
“What is that?”  
  
He’s loud, and the harpy gives him a little shriek before scrambling on top of my head, having apparently forgotten how to use its wings. It's a cute little thing, stumbling all over me, and definitely off its tiny tits. Power related, clearly, and there's only one cape I can think of who does weird little creatures, apart from Blasto, but he's skipped town.  
  
“I think that is Genesis.”  
  
“Wait…” I can see the gears turning in his head, “you mean?”  
  
She's high as a kite, which means the 'real' Genesis is in this room. Apparently, powers have a psychological component, so I'm looking for someone who wants to escape, to be anyone else. Someone like me, in a way.  
  
“Yeah. Don’t worry about it.”  
  
“Sure,” he’s being strangely accepting about this, “you sure do make a lot of friends with rival capes.”  
  
“What can I say,” I gingerly step over the sofas, “it’s all part of my natural charm.”  
  
He laughs, and slumps into one of the sofas with a drink in his hand. I move across the room, dodging sleeping women while trying not to sway my head too much, as Genesis punches me every time she gets a little unbalanced. Her real body is still lying on the edge of my pillow pile, apparently deep in peaceful sleep even with all the evidence to the contrary. I slowly lower myself next to her, and just lay there as the harpy uses me as an improvised climbing frame. Newter eventually brings up more girls, but I don’t bother to get up. I’ll get up to help Jess back into her wheelchair, but until then I’m happy to just lie still.


	47. Seeker: 7.04

Blasto’s tank is massive. It has to be, to fit me in it while substituting for a lot of my organs. That’s not counting all the ancillaries, the uninterrupted power supply, the bundles of piping and cabling, and the tanks that store the amniotic fluid when it isn’t in use. Even then, it’s still smaller than the setup I had back in the Predators. That’s mostly to do with the fluid, and the strange bacteria in there. Blasto uses them, or used them depending on whether or not he’s still alive, to grow life from scratch.  
  
What Wes made was a little different. The fluid itself wasn’t particularly special, just a fairly standard mix of bacteria and electrolytes cooked up by Karran. What mattered was the hardware surrounding it, supplementary mechanical organs that used the fluid to transfer the nutrients they made into my body, assuming control of the respiratory, digestive, and all the other systems necessary for sustaining life. The hardware was where all the magic happened and it took up a third of our lorry, entirely separate from the tank.  
  
From what I can tell about Blasto’s version, as little as I can understand of his bullshit super-tech, his machine does the opposite. Rather than the fluid supporting the hardware, all the hardware is there to support the tank itself. It’s the bacteria in the fluid that does all the work, and the hardware just pumps electricity into that bacteria, which is then somehow converted into energy and nutrients that would normally stimulate the growth of his creations, but in my case just interact with the regenerative subsystems in my DNA. It’s kind of like using a screwdriver to hammer in a nail; the end result is the same, but it’s not what the tool was designed for.  
  
Still, I know for a fact that any bitek corporation worth their salt would kill to get their hands on this stuff.  
  
The portability of the tank does leave something to be desired, however. It’s not exactly thin, and that makes it a bitch to get around the place. I reach out to a small handle on the side, pumping it up and down to force air into a decidedly un-advanced hydraulic system that lifts up the tank on eight wheels hidden in the base. An experimental tug at the front of the tank determines that the hydraulics haven’t conked out, and I can still move the bloody thing. That’s step one done, now I just need to get it out of this bloody room.  
  
At first glance, that seems like an impossible task. After all, I have enough trouble fitting through the door, and I’m small enough to fit in the tank. There’s absolutely no way it’ll fit through the doorway, it’s about four feet too wide and two feet too tall. Of course, we got it in here, so there is a way. I poke my head through the doorway, before giving Mike the bouncer a heads up. He’s traded his neat black suit for a set of grey overalls that have been zipped almost all the way down to make room for his bulging gut, and his weathered ebony features have been distorted by a clear plastic mask. He’s holding a circular saw with barely restrained glee, and his face lights up even more when I give him a thumbs up.  
  
I step back, and watch as the circular blade cuts through the wall from the other side, sending clouds of dust shooting all over the place. I scramble back, grabbing a filthy plastic tarp from the other side of the room and throwing it over my skin to keep the dust off. There’s not as much plaster though, not as much as when we brought the tank in, because, after we first cut the wall out, we resealed it with grout rather than plaster. I can hear cackling over the buzz of the saw blade, as Mike no doubt has the time of his life. He slices down the left side of the wall, then moves over to do the right, flashing me a grin while menacingly waving about the power tool as he passes the open doorway. Never bothered to put the door back in, not like I particularly care about my privacy.  
  
Once he’s done sawing, he clears off to get the dust off, while I throw off the tarp, which has gone from olive green to a speckled grey colour, and step up to the wall. I reach up with a hand and grab hold of the top of the doorframe, then hold it steady as I push into the wall with my four tendrils, guiding the spikes down the channels of soft resin left after we sealed up the first attempt. These tendrils are enough to lift my own bodyweight, so lifting light plaster is child’s play. The only worry is in keeping it steady so I don’t accidentally bash it against the floor or ceiling, but that’s no bother to me. I let go with my hand, dropping onto all fours while keeping the wall steady with my tendrils, and prop the wall up against the remaining stretch of corridor, leaving a clear path for the tank.  
  
The tank itself rolls alright, but I think one of the wheels is a little wonky. Typical fucking cape; can build a viable fountain of youth, using it only to grow monsters, but can’t put wheels on the bloody thing without fucking it up. Still, I guess that’s why there’s seven more of the bloody things. It would take six tough blokes to push this thing, even with the wheels, maybe with a team of horses to help them out, but I don’t need any of that. Instead, the six blokes are waiting behind me to carry the few accessories this thing needs, the tanks that hold the excess bacteria and the sacks of yeast we use to feed them.  
  
There’s just enough clearance to get the tank down the corridors, if I take them side on, and I only have to stop a couple of times to move furniture out of the way before coming to the other side of the Palanquin. Back before this place was a nightclub, it was a factory of some kind. Don’t know what they made here, but it was big and they made it across all three floors of the building.  
  
When Faultline bought the place, she knocked out a lot of the second floor to create the tall club room and the overhanging VIP area, but a lot of the old factory infrastructure stayed on. The third floor was always going to belong to the crew, and Faultline could see us moving a lot of equipment in and out of here. That’s why she restored the old cargo elevator in the corner of the building, and only gutted a bit of the loading bay to make room for the kitchen.  
  
The old thing creaks and groans, and there’s not enough space for me and the tank to go down at the same time, not enough weight capacity either but I prefer not to think about that. I slink away, heading back to the other side of the Palanquin, back down the stairs and through the staff only areas of the club before coming out just in time to see the tank lumber its way down the elevator. It’s not exactly the fastest lift I’ve ever seen.  
  
The loading bay is full already, with the boss, the crew and a bunch of employees carrying all sorts of stuff out of the loading bay. We’re heading south and west, according to the boss, which, given my previous experiences with American travel, probably means we’ll be on the road for a long time, and the plan is to stay down there for weeks at least, so that means bringing a lot of extra shit like the tank. Of course, that means we can’t exactly use the minibus to get around, but that’s alright.  
  
Faultline’s bought us all a present. It’s fifteen meters long, and two and a half meters wide. The engine is this great American thing, jutting out far past the windscreen and capped off with an absolutely vicious grill that runs off an old diesel engine that belches fumes into the air. Not a single fuel cell in sight, just pure chemical reactions. The whole thing weighs thirty-six tons, and that’s before the cargo is taken into account. Its curtain sides are plain white, with no branding whatsoever and the cab is painted in a glossy black. I just want to throw myself behind the wheel and take this beast for a spin, but I’ll have to settle for the back.  
  
The loading bay of the old factory is raised, so I can roll the tank right into the trailer of the lorry, right past the open curtain sides. The tank can just about fit at the very end of the trailer, right on top of the cab’s cluster of eight wheels, and all the ancillary stuff slots into the same generator that powers the air conditioning unit hidden between the cab and the trailer. See, this is a little more than a bog-standard lorry. The curtain sides only actually cover a third of the thing, and the rest is all half an inch of sheet metal with a layer of curtain on top. That part of the trailer has cheap carpeting on the floor, a couple of computers with an aerial for internet signals, a small shower cubicle, chemical toilet and six beds set in bunks against the walls.  
  
There’s something about seeing all the staff loading up the finishing touches, including a half-decent sofa and a TV, that brings a tear to my eye. Everyone pulling together, loading everything up onto the back of the trucks whilst Faultline strolls through it all like the ringmaster of the circus. It’s so familiar, it almost hurts. Already I’m looking at the long sides of this van, and picturing glowing spray paint announcing our presence to all and sundry. Sure, the boss would crucify me for blowing our cover, but it would be well worth it.  
  
With everyone working overtime, the whole job gets done by nine in the morning, with Newter still nursing his hangover, and soon Faultline has us all gathered in the back of the lorry, the curtain sides closed and sealed. She’s standing by one of the computer monitors, swung out so that we can all get a look at it. My tank looms large behind her, the bacteria-laden liquid glowing in a baleful red light. Me and Gregor are standing at the back, with Newter leaning against the wall and Spitfire and Elle sitting on the newly-installed sofa.  
  
Faultline’s not wearing her helmet, nor are Spitfire and Elle, but she is sporting a new khaki shemagh worn high and tight around her neck. She leans over and turns on the screen, sticking in a thumb drive and bringing up a folder of pictures, looking like they’ve been scanned in from physical copies. The first is easily recognizable, a stylized U, or perhaps a C. This particular one appears to be the one on Gregor’s shoulder.  
  
“It’s time to talk about ‘monstrous capes.’”  
  
Newter scoffs, thumbing his nose at the screen.  
  
“Spitfire,” Faultline’s using our pseudonyms, “you may not be familiar with the circumstances of Gregor, Newter or Sonnie, so this is partly for your benefit.”  
  
She flicks through a series of images, some taken from crime scenes, or lineup photos while others are Protectorate PR jobs featuring the heroes. Each photo of each cape is followed by one showing exactly where their brand is. Weld’s photo flashes up onto the screen, then one of his ankle, a brand apparently burned into the metal.  
  
“Parahumans with obviously inhuman features have been appearing on a steady basis across North America, as far as we can tell, though not all of those are what the PRT terms as Case-53s. Those capes all have the same common features: retrograde amnesia, an obviously inhuman appearance and the same tattoo somewhere on their body. They were all dumped in hard to reach areas within urban centers: alleys, ditches, rooftops, under bridges. Someone wanted them to be found, but not right away.”  
  
I didn’t know how widespread it was. This is a massive effort, over a massive area.  
  
“In four out of five cases, Capes with monstrous features have been found to have the same brand on them. Bear in mind that those numbers include a lot of independents and villains who the PRT haven’t checked. The real numbers are likely a lot higher. Whatever this is, it’s not the same as the normal process by which people gain powers.”  
  
The image changes again, showing a police file that’s too blurry to make out.  
  
“Which leads us to Tallahassee, Florida, and a man calling himself the Dealer. He appeared on the scene three months ago, and rumors began to circulate that he was selling powers in a bottle.”  
  
The image changed again, a post on PHO.  
  
“In this blog post, which was deleted within minutes of appearing, a man claims to have bought superpowers from the Dealer, and describes the power coming from one of dozens of bottles that the Dealer had in a metal case. A case with the same symbol on it. The post was made by a man named Jadon Owen, who was murdered by two unknown capes within a day of posting.”  
  
“They’re covering their tracks,” I pipe up from the back.  
  
“Exactly. I think that this ‘Dealer’ is a rogue member of whatever organization is making these formulas, which would make the Case-53s unsuccessful test subjects.”  
  
“So, what?” Newter pipes up, “You want us to find the Dealer, see what he knows?”  
  
Faultline shakes her head.  
  
“No. There’s been no viable rumors since the murder. He’s either dead, or gone to ground. Our target is different.”  
  
Another cluck of the mouse, and the screen gets filled by a high-resolution image of a beautiful redhead at some kind of high-end poker table. I whistle appreciatively, and Emily shoots me a dirty look.  
  
“Over time, Case-53s have been getting less and less inhuman in appearance. It’s not an absolute rule, just a general trend, but it’s there all the same. Then, we have this.”  
  
The next picture is of the same woman, but that’s the only similar thing about it. This one’s a still of some grainy CCTV footage, and the redhead has none of the same easy confidence. Instead, she looks unnerved, hurriedly changing out of her dress in an underground car park. What matters, though, is the stylized U that’s visible underneath her bra strap.  
  
“She made a small fortune on the Vegas casino scene, but within days she had a bounty on her from the casino companies, which means the Elite, and she’s become a person of interest to the Vegas Protectorate. When confronted by them, she said nothing, but identified herself as Shamrock. She clearly has a power, one that let her cheat the casinos, and yet she has no inhuman features whatsoever. Additionally, her behavior doesn’t match that of a lost amnesiac, and she already has a cape name.”  
  
“You think she remembers something,” Newter states, leaning forward a little from the wall.  
  
“Exactly. Either that, or she’s an agent of the conspiracy who slipped up.”  
  
“So,” I interject, “I take it we’re going to bring her in, put the screws to her?”  
  
“We’re going West,” Faultline firmly states, “We’re going to find Shamrock, before some two-bit bounty hunters can snatch her up for a quick buck, and find out what she knows. If she’s cooperative, we may offer her a spot on the team as a way out. If not, then we’ll just have to claim that bounty for ourselves.”  
  
Gregor grunts, a noise that could be an agreement or a disagreement. Now the lorry makes sense; can’t exactly take the tank on a plane, after all. Probably can’t take me on a plane, either.  
  
“Right then," Newter smirks, "when do we leave?”  
  
“Now,” Faultline answers, “if nobody has any questions.”  
  
There are none, and Faultline steps out the back of the truck, closely followed by Gregor who, as well as being unofficial second in command, is also the only other person who can drive.  
  
They shut the trailer’s doors behind them, cutting off the sun entirely and leaving us under white florescent lights, then, a minute and a half later, the truck lurches to a start, twisting and turning as it makes its way through the bay. Spitfire climbs up to one of the bunks, leaning back on a pillow with a book in her hand, while Newter starts messing with his phone.  
  
I don’t really have much else to do, so I carefully check over the fittings on my tank before climbing in and immersing myself in the regenerative fluid. There’s not much space in the back of the van as is, and I can’t exactly destroy the only sofa we have. The tanks more comfortable than a sofa anyway, and we’ve added a spot on the outside of the tank for Cranial’s speaker to go, so I can still chat to people.  
  
Time passes at a snail’s pace, and I occupy myself with internet threads, while Newter and Emily occupy themselves, and Elle comes up and sits with her back against my tank. After a while, Newter stands up from the sofa, stretching himself out like a cat, and pads over to the tank, before leaping up onto the ceiling and hanging upside down so that his head is level with my own.  
  
“Feels good to be doing something about it, doesn’t it?”  
  
He doesn’t explain what ‘it’ is, and he doesn’t need to.  
  
“It does. It kind of felt like we were coasting along, avoiding the elephant in the room. Now we’ve got a bit more information, a bit more of an idea of the scale of what we’re dealing with. We’ve got Shamrock, a poor little lamb all lost in the desert.”  
  
My voice drips with false sympathy I pause, flexing my limbs within the confines of my tank, coiling my tendrils and rubbing my thumb along my clawed fingers.  
  
“It feels good to be back on the hunt.”


	48. Seeker: 7.05

**Welcome to the Parahumans Online Message Boards**  
You are currently logged in, Sunny_Disposition  
You are viewing:  
• Threads you have replied to  
• AND Threads that have new replies  
• OR private message conversations with new replies  
• Thread OP is displayed  
• Ten posts per page  
• Last ten messages in private message history  
• Threads and private messages are ordered by user custom preference.  
You have 2 infractions and 1 warnings.  
  


■

  
****

**♦** **Topic: Where's Blasto?  
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Boston ► General  
  
Minuteman1776** (Original Poster)  
Posted on April 22, 2011:  
  
First off, well done to the Protectorate, PRT and National Guard for dealing with the outbreak of monsters in Back Bay, and for doing it without destroying the best part of Boston.  
  
Blasto slipped the noose, however, and according to [this] press release from Director Armstrong, he'd skipped town before all this started. Apparrently the attacks were the result of his creatures going feral.  
  
So Blasto skips town so fast that he leaves the metaphorical stove on, leaving the authorities to clean up his mess. Again.  
  
Why'd he leave in such a hurry, where'd he go and what will he do next? Honestly, I've got no idea, but I figured we could use a place to speculate.  
  
 **(Showing Page 7 of 7)**

**► Showman22**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

You can't just assume that he's gone off to join the S9. They're in Arizona, last anyone saw of them, and they don't take recruits without 'testing' them. Besides, Blasto was far too lazy for the S9. Something happened to drive him out of his territory.

**► RobotMasterRace**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Look, all I'm saying is that we can't discount the possibility. Blasto was a biotinker, just like Nilbog and Bonesaw, and we know how loopy they get. Who's to say soemthing didn't cause him to go nuts, and the next we'll here of him is when he's riding a dinosaur next to Crawler?

**► OrchardKeeper**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Not this again! I'm so sick of people comparing Blasto to Nilbog! Blasto would never go that far. He just wanted to create his creatures, and only held enough territory to keep himself afloat.

**► RobotMasterRace**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Was wondering when you'd show up in this thread. Six people died because his 'creatures' went on a rampage, and two dozen more were wounded. He ran protection rackets, and created lethal monsters that he used in open warfare with the other gangs.

Or have you forgotten the Woad Giant, apologist?

**► OrchardKeeper**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

And how many people does the Butcher kill each time he/she swings by to check up on their old gang? How many people has Accord 'disappeared' for simply having their fly undone, or for daring to wear odd socks? Blasto was the sanest villain in this city.

**► NewBostonite** (Kyushu Survivor) (Ellisburg Survivor)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

I've been paying close attention to this whole thing (three guesses why) and have been gathering a list of any unexplained biotinker phenomena that could be linked to Blasto.

The first thing is a break in at a zoo in Montreal. Pretty much all the big animals were taken, and a lot of other endangered or foreign species as well. Blasto's long been suspected to rely on existing animal components, so he could be using these creatures to set himself up there. [link]

It's tenuous, there are a few animal rights capes who could have done it, but it's the closest thing to Boston that I've found.

The second news is down in Louisiana, where the Bayou King has started expanding out of the swamps, attacking a couple of small towns, [link]

Could be that Blasto got paid or threatened into joining up with his fellow biotinker, and Louisiana's about to be hit by an army of alligator-men. Good luck Louisiana.

The third is a bunch of animals behaving oddly in Denver. People have reported seeing monkeys salvaging scrap from junkyards, and wild dogs behaving very oddly. Could be Blasto trying a more covert approach, could be a Doctor Doolitle type master using animals to build things. [link]

On the international front, the Indian Army has just announced a new piece of equipment. They're called 'raptors', and they're apparrently biological creations controlled by a kind of primitive AI. [link] to the Indian press release.

It could be that Blasto got snatched up by the Indian Army, but the creatures look very [different] to Blasto's [usual] [fare], and the Indians supposedly have two thousand of the things. If it is Blasto, then he was seriously holding out on us.

**► Showman22**

Replied on May 5, 2011:

This is really thorough, so thanks, but holy shit. How unlucky can one person get?

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 5, 6, 7**   
  


■

  
****

**♦** **Topic: NEW WEAPONS FOR THE ARMY  
In: Boards ► News ► Events ► India  
  
Prakash Nancy** (Original Poster)  
Posted on May 2, 2011:  
  
Excellent news! The Indian Army has gained another weapon for use in the defence of our nation! Read their statement [here]!!!  
  
The 'Raptors' are a versitile biological weapon system that can be deployed without direct human supervision, instead being directed remotely like a drone.  
  
These new weapons will keep our soldiers out of harms reach, and ensure that India's future is never threatened!!!  
  
INDIA FOREVER!!!  
  
 **(Showing Page 33 of 33)**

**► VictoryForTheMenInBlue!**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

INDIA FOREVER! OUR ADVANCED WEAPONS WILL SECURE OUR FUTURE!

**► L4W0N** (Power Guru)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

I think we all agree that this is the work of a biotinker. It is interesting that this tinker did not join the Garama, but perhaps he was already in the Army when he gained powers. Either way, this can only be good news.

Looking at the 'Raptors', they seem to be aimed at closing the distance to the enemy and tearing them apart with their claws, rather than carrying weapons. That would explain the thick legs, and the covering of armour. (Is that made of bone or has it been attached to the creature?)

Some people seem worried about these creatures, but the way I see it they're no different than the Air Force's new drones. Both still have a human responsible for calling the shots.

**► Sunny_Disposition**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

I'm pretty sure that's bone. You can see the flesh seams where it goes beneath the skin, and th colour fits. It looks like it's angled to minimise the effect of gunfire on the front, but that comes at a slight mobility cost.

It should do well against most of what can be carried by infantry, and even if it cant then theres still 1999 others.

It seems like all that extra armour would slow it down a little, and I dont know why he decided to limit it to only four limbs. Maybe it makes it more streamiled for distance running?

**► Indian Ministry of Defence** (Government Department)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

The Ministry of Defence wishes to reassure India's citizens that the Raptor Weapon System is entirely safe for use. Teams of Raptors are directed at all times by a human operator in a mobile command centre, and the Raptors are only cleared for use on Indian soil in the event of an S-Class threat, subject to direct Presidential authorisation.

The system was developed by a Parahuman working closely with Army researchers, and is a joint effort between this Parahuman and scientists from both the Indian Armed Forces and the civillian sector.

For more information, please consult our official [press release] or visit our [website].

**End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 31, 32, 33**   
  
  


■

  
****

**♦** **Topic: 'The Villains Step In'  
In: Boards ► News ► Events ► America ► Brockton Bay  
  
bothad** (Original Poster)  
Posted on May 6, 2011:  
  
The ABB are beaten. Lung's in custody (and blind!) and that psycho Bakuda got cold clocked by our very own Clockblocker. Oni Lee escaped but he was barely a threat before he started working for Lung, and he hasn't got any of the same infrastructure now that the Army's done their work.  
  
Speaking of, I for one was very happy when the lights came back on in my neighbourhood, and doubly so when the first police car rolled past my window. The last few days have been nuts, stuck behind the Army's checkpoints eating food from a tin, while my neighbourhood turns into a warzone.  
  
Stuff like that is why I got very surprised to see a bunch of villains walking down my street. By now, I'm sure a lot of you have read this [story] about their involvement in the fight, and I was the guy who sent in the cover photo.  
  
Don't believe me? How about [a] [few] [more]?  
  
Sounds great, right? The ABB were so batshit insane that even the local villains decided to team up to take 'em down. Hallelujah!  
  
Except it hasn't helped. Less than half an hour after the Protectorate nailed Bakuda, and Coil's mercenaries get into a shooting match with a bunch of empire capes and mooks, with bullets, lasers and big chunks of concrete flying all over the place right outside Medhall.  
  
Then a frend of mine, who lives in an even worse neighbourhood than this one, says the Archer's Bridge Merchants are trying to pick up Bakuda's slack. They don't have bombs, though, so they're just dragging people off the street and sticking them with something addictive.  
  
I haven't heard from my friend in days.  
  
We had the Army on the streets, Protectorate capes from across the Eastern Seaboard, and the villains exploit the situation, Our gang problem got worse, not better.  
  
 **(Showing Page 1 of 2)**

**► Brocktonite03**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

What do you mean it got worse? Bakuda was putting bombs in people's necks and sending them out to kill anyone they found!

Once we're at the stage where open warfare is happening on our streets, the only way is up.

**► ArmedAndHarmless**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Hot damn, those pics are sweet! There's so many pics of the heroes out there it's easy forget the villains can be badass too.

**► Laser Augment**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Please. Like the Merchants will ever amount to anything. They just squabble around for the scraps left by the real gangs.

**► A Ship Called Dignity** (EMT)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

'Badass' isn't the word I'd use. I didn't even know there was something like that giant in our city. Also, bothad, it looks like she killed that guy. Please tell me a major news publication didn't put a snuff photo at the top of a front-page article?

All joking aside, this really goes to show what a sick bunch of freaks we have in this city. Listen, they had a few of us paramedics following the Army and the PRT as they cleared the streets. I volunteered with Medicen Sans Frontiers for a year, back in college, and I saw a lot of things that reminded me of my time in Liberia.

**► bothad** (Original Poster)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

'She' (how can you tell?) didn't kill him. Looked like she was thinking about it, though, and she sure wasn't playing nice with any of them.

Also, you have my respect for what you did. One of my friends got caught by stray shrapnel, and one of your Ambulance crews helped patch him up. You guys really went above and beyond this time.

**► A Ship Called Dignity** (EMT)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Thanks. That means a lot.

Anything that obviously dangerous has to be female. Just ask my ex-wife,

**► Ekul**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Man, that's one hell of an article. You must have balls of steel to stay long enough to take those pictures.

Don't get why you're making such a big deal of the Merchants, though. They're just a bunch of bottom-feeders living off the scraps left by the bigger gangs.

**► SentaiSaved**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

You don't get it, do you?

The scraps just got a whole lot bigger with the ABB gone. There's an awful lot of neighborhoods that just became defenceless, and it's easy to see that we'll end up sandwiched between the Empire and the Merchants.

Neither option is good for the Asian community.

This all happened because Armsmaster took in Lung. Without him, there was no one to reign in Bakuda.

**► AverageAlexandros** (Cape Husband)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

A Ship Called Dignity, if you're still around, can you tell us anything about what it was like on the frontlines?

You've probably had the closest view of anyone here, and you're not bound to secrecy like the Capes, PRT, or Army.

**► LovesickInBB**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Bull. Lung was in charge for a good two-thirds of the campaign. If he wanted to end it, he would have done so. Bakuda might have set this whole thing off, but Lung was every bit as active.

**End of Page. 1, 2  
  
(Showing Page 2 of 2)**

**► A Ship Called Dignity** (EMT)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Trying to keep tabs on your partner, eh?

Sure, I can spill. A lot of the time, they had us stick back, dealing with any civillian casualties while any Security Force injuries were dealt with by their own Medics.

There was this one time, though, when they grabbed three of our ambulences, loaded them full of Paramedics, and took us deep into contested territory, to an old Depatment Store that the ABB had been using.

There was a few dozen prisoners zip-tied on the side of the road. A lot of them had limbs that had been trampled into fragments by another cape, and some even lost their limbs before Panacea could get to them through triage.

I stuck around for a while, and they pulled a lot of bodies out of that building. Most had been shot, but there were a couple who looked like they'd been crushed to death. There was another body, a little further down the road.

One of the villains, I think, dressed in a black uniform with a whole bunch of fany gear. No gun, though. According to the Army, he'd been stabbed in the neck by an ABB captain, who'd slipped off.

I don't think I'll ever forget the sight of a girl in her mid-teens, still dressed in her school uniform, screaming as she clutched her stump.

**► AverageAlexandros** (Cape Husband)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

fuck. thank you for telling me, but fuck.

**► Sunny_Disposition**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Things aren't so clear cut in a fight. When there's an enemy trying to kill you, the only thing you can do is try to kill them right back.

The ABB brought this on thesmelves when they started this whole mess.

**► bothad** (Original Poster)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

How can you say that? I had friends who were conscripted into the ABB. Conscripted. Nobody was there by choice, you understand? They don't deserve to be forced to have a fistfight with Kaiser, or to have to fight whatever the fuck that lizard bitch is.

**► Brocktonite03**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Not cool, Sunny. A lot of us lost people this past week.

**► Sunny_Disposition**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Oh spare me that shit. Like those same people wouldn't suddenly become ABB loyalists if their side had won. There were conscripts, sure, but I sure saw an awful lot of die-hard fanatics.

**User received an infraction for this post**

**► FlowersAtSunset**

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Look, I can't lurk any longer. Right now, I'm lying on a bed in a secure hospital ward, waiting for Panacea to come back on shift and work her way through the hundreds of other people in here. I've got a bomb in my neck, and they've put sandbags in between each bed in case I blow up or turn into glass or who knows what.

A friend of mine decided he'd rather not wait for healing, so agreed to surgery. They had two bomb disposal guys and a whole team of surgeons working on him, and I heard the bang from the other side of the hospital.

I had this stupid crush on him, but never worked up the courage to admit it. According to one of the nurses, there wasn't enough complete parts to identify any individual body,

Fuck you, you heartless bitch.

**► Sunny_Disposition** (Temp-banned)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

And how many people did you try to kill out on the streets?

How far were you prepared to go to save your own life?

This is what happens, boys and girls. This is what a real fight looks like. Not quite the spandex and one-liners you were expecting, is it? You people are living in a fucking fantasy, fed to you by spin doctors and the PR fucking T.

**User has been temporarily banned for this post: Antagonising trauma victims.**

**► bothad** (Original Poster)

Replied on May 6, 2011:

Good riddance to bad rubbish

**End of Page. 1, 2**   
  


■

  
****

**♦** **Private message from NotAFakeTan:**

**NotAFakeTan:** Are we nearly there yet?

**Sunny_Disposition:** How the fuck should I know?

**NotAFakeTan:** Are we nearly there yet?

**Sunny_Disposition:** Piss off

**Sunny_Disposition:** How far is it to Vegas anyway?

**NotAFakeTan:** Girl, do I look like I know how to read a map? Why do you think I was asking?

**Sunny_Disposition:** Hold on, you fucking luddite. I'll look it up.

**NotAFakeTan *New Message*:** Are we nearly there yet?

  
“Forty-two hours?!” I scream, my voice booming through Cranial’s speakers even as I float serenely in the tank, “We’ll be on the road for days!”  
  
Emily’s head pops up from her bunk, her hair in an absolute state, while Newter points at me and laughs.  
  
“What were you expecting? We’re going to Vegas.”  
  
“How was I supposed to know how far that is? I figured it’d be maybe twenty-four hours, given how long we spent on the road last time.”  
  
“But that was only Illanois. Vegas is the other side of the country.”  
  
I snarl inside the tank, which just serves to blow out a few trapped pockets of air.  
  
“Then your country’s too big. How’m I gonna pass the time?”  
  
“I dunno,” Newter pipes up, “browse PHO until you fall asleep?”  
  
“I can’t…”  
  
“What was that?” Newter leaps up from the sofa, pacing towards me with his hands clasped mischievously behind his back, “didn’t quite catch you?”  
  
“I got banned, okay? Happens to everyone.”  
  
I hear Emily murmur something from her bunk. It sounded a lot like ‘never happens to me.’  
  
Newter looks at me as his grin expands to a width that would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. He doesn’t laugh, but that somehow makes it worse, instead reaching out with his finger and drawing a frowny face on the glass of my tank, which quickly dries into a stain. He jumps back onto the sofa, flicking through threads on his phone. Then he starts laughing. I let out a long, drawn out, sigh.  
  
“How long have we been on the road?”  
  
“Four hours.”  
  
"Fuck."


	49. Seeker: 7.06

Faultline made the right call in getting us out of the city when she did. On the very same day we left, the Undersiders decided to publish the identity of every known Empire Cape, and every influential Brocktonite who ever supported them. Apparently, the city almost went up in flames when Purity’s kid got nabbed by Child Services, and several big companies saw their stock prices plummet to next to nothing once their ties to the Empire were revealed. The Bay’s due for a recession now, with so many of its major employers collapsing.  
  
Once we’d stopped for the night, at some motorway services on the I90, Faultline and Gregor came back into the trailer, absolutely knackered from driving for sixteen straight hours with only a single stop to switch over, and she offered her own perspective on events. We were sitting around the trailer, some of us on the sofas while others were leaning against the wall, or lying on one of the beds. They were all sharing a meal of canned rations, heated up over a portable stove, while I was getting by solely on the nutrients from Blasto’s Tank. It’s not unhealthy by any means, more efficient than real food, but nowhere near as nice.  
  
“This is Coil’s ploy,” Faultline said, once I asked her about the news, “he’s effectively cut the Empire off from their support base, and by publicly disclosing their connection to Gesellschaft he’ll have ensured that Homeland Security and the CIA put pressure on the PRT to stamp them out.”  
  
That had been the other big news of the day. Not only were the Empire secretly a bunch of upstanding locals deeply involved in one of America’s biggest Pharmaceutical companies, they were also in bed with a sort of international cabal of Nazis, who had been steadily supplying them with weapons, funding and capes in exchange for loyalty, and the broader promise of an American Empire that would be willing to cooperate with a German Nazi state.  
  
“They’ll never be able to reach the same level of support, and a lot of existing members will cut ties now that it’s come out that the Empire was just a puppet for a foreign organization. Hard to build yourself up as the true American patriots when you’re taking German Euros…”  
  
Emily had shifted a little then, cradling her half-eaten plate with her legs dangling off the edge of her bunk.  
  
“It’s hard to think of them gone. They always seemed like a fact of life to me, something that we’d never be able to get rid of. They’ve been in the Bay for longer than I’ve been alive… It happened so fast, too. Yesterday, it looked like they were going to take the whole Bay, but now they’ve had their real names dragged through the mud, and they’re pretty much done for.”  
  
It was an interesting thing, wasn’t it? To my mind, it showed just how much these people could get done if they just stopped holding themselves back. An Empire older than Emily, with more capes than the local Protectorate and an army of skinhead pricks, and they got crippled by a bunch of slackers with an internet connection. Of course, I didn’t say any of that out loud. I know how these people get about their rules, and I wasn’t about to start a shouting match, especially not with Gregor and Faultline so obviously dead on their feet. I just floated there in the tank, adding my own contributions to the conversation while separated from them by a tank full of fluid and a pane of glass. At least Emily came over and wiped off Newter’s frowny face before turning in for the night.  
  
The next morning Melanie and Gregor woke up at the crack of dawn, showered in cold water to shock themselves awake, and went straight back to the cab. I felt the floor shake as the lorry’s engine rumbled back to life, and then we were back on the open road again; me, Newter, Emily and Elle all locked up in the back without even a view of the outside. Back to mind numbing tedium, floating silently in the van while I tried to distract myself through the Crew and the ‘net.  
  
That day was long, but I managed to pass the time by doing some more digging into India’s new servitor weapons, and whatever other random topic that caught my fancy. Elle ate her lunch leaning up against my tank, which was nice, but Emily seemed to be avoiding me. Still is, as a matter of fact. I’m not sure if she’s doing it consciously or not, but it’s not a pleasant experience all the same. I want to fix things with her, but I think this issue’s been boiling in her head since the strip club. It’s not the sort of thing I can solve in an afternoon…  
  
She’s bought into this Unwritten Rules crap hook, line and sinker. I guess I can see the appeal; she must feel awful vulnerable now, with her whole life turned upside down. I guess I can sympathize, too. After all, it happened to me. The difference, I suppose, is that I ended up in a body strong enough to lash out, and a situation where I could vent my frustrations. She just got napalm breath and an arrest warrant. Small wonder, then, that she chose to hide while I chose to fight.  
  
We talked a little, about not much of anything, and Newter made an effort to try and fix the rift between us. He didn’t quite understand the cause, but I think he recognized enough of the signs to know that we’re drifting apart. He sees a lot more than his happy-go-lucky persona would have you think, and even though he was literally bouncing off the walls at times, he still took a few moments to get us engaged in conversations that involved all of us. It helped, don’t get me wrong.  
  
That evening, we pulled off the road before stopping. I could only tell because of the way the lorry shifted as we made a ninety-degree turn. As before, Gregor and Melanie came back into the van while Emily set about cooking dried pasta in boiling water, and made a makeshift sauce out of tinned tomatoes and vegetables. Not my sort of thing at all, and probably not theirs either.  
  
This time, though, the doors at the end of the lorry were left open, exposing an expanse of farmland watered by a circular irrigation system. The crew stepped out, one by one, and walked off out of sight. After a few moments Melanie’s head popped out from the edge of the doorway.  
  
“Have you ever seen the Rockies?”  
  
“You know full well I’ve never left Britain in my life.”  
  
“Then come on.”  
  
She disappeared from view, and I flicked the switches that would release me from the tank, waiting patiently while the fluid drained out through the grates in the base. My weight returned to me, and I stood on all fours for the first time in two days. There was no discomfort or imbalance; I was built to be combat ready right out of the tank, after all. The jet of icy water does shock me a little, but it’s necessary to clean Blasto’s liquid off me. Khanivore might have been able to get away with staggering into the arena covered in amniotic fluid, but there’s carpeting in this trailer.  
  
I paced through the trailer, looking out the open doorway to the endless expanse of crop fields. They were glowing golden in the sunset, and there was a mist rising up from the crop sprayers as they rotated around the center of the field. The moment I stepped out the door, it was like the whole world expanded in front of me. More flat ground than I’ve ever seen, stretching out forever in an expanse of arable land, of simple fields of wheat and hay and more advanced stuff maintained by irrigation systems. All bathed in that same golden light.  
  
Then I turned, slowly pacing up the side of the lorry to where the group were staring off into the distance. There were no fields here, no endless expanse, instead the ground rose up into peaks and valleys, a titanic mountain range stretching out as far as the eye can see to the left and right, with the setting sun just barely cresting the tallest peaks.  
  
We stood there for a while, six capes out in the middle of nowhere, as the sun slowly set beneath the mountains, casting the plains into darkness. None of us talked, we just watched. I felt a little better that night, as I slept curled up inside my tank. I’d never have seen something like that if I hadn’t ended up here…  
  
Today is a little different. For starters, the first thing to hit me when the rear doors of the van open is an oppressive sense of heat that beats away at my body even through the tank. The others seem to feel it too, and Emily starts to look uncomfortable in her fireproof boiler suit. Melanie’s still in her trucker clothes, as is Gregor, so they’re both fine in the heat, but I can see her having trouble with the amount of metal she wears ‘in costume’. We stopped a little earlier today, so the sun is beating down almost head on, and our air conditioning must have been working overtime to keep the van from becoming a sweatbox.  
  
As my eyes adjust to the harsh light, I see that we’ve parked slab bang in the middle of a small town, all one-story buildings and gently sloping roofs. I don’t get why we’ve set up shop in the center of a civilization like this, and the others seem just as surprised. Faultline clambers up into the back, closely followed by Gregor, and pauses for a second to look us all over.  
  
“Welcome to Monroe, Utah. We’ll be stopping early tonight while I check over a few things with my contacts. Seems Shamrock has fled Las Vegas, which makes sense, and gone back East. We’re stopping here so we don’t end up driving in the wrong direction.”  
  
“That’s great,” I pipe up, “but won’t the locals mind? We’re sort of in the middle of town here.”  
  
“Monroe, Utah,” she began, her slight flair for the dramatic overriding my question, “population of two thousand, two hundred and fifty, as of the last census. Current population, zero.”  
  
My eyes adjust a little more to the light, and the buildings come into focus. They’re not quite dilapidated yet, but they’re getting there fast. There’s not a single intact window in any of them, and some of the structures have gaping holes in them. The whole place has that abandoned look to it…  
  
“Slaughterhouse Bait! You brought us to a Slaughterhouse town?” Emily exclaims, her eyes darting around in panic so obvious that I tense my limbs involuntarily, spoiling for a fight. I think I read something about the Slaughterhouse Nine in the Blasto thread, but that was just a name.  
  
“Calm down. Yes, Monroe was hit by the Slaughterhouse Nine. Four months ago, which means it’s long been cleared by the PRT. The only people here now are the occasional crew of smugglers or migrants who use it as a stopover point. Which means it’s perfect for us.”  
  
“Slaughterhouse Bait?” I might as well have grown a second head, for all the attention my question brought.  
  
“Sorry, I forgot,” Faultline smiles for a second. I guess from her perspective I might as well have said I didn’t know what colour the sky was.  
  
“The Slaughterhouse Nine tend to target small towns like this as they cross the country. It used to be all they’d target, but they’ve been hitting cities more frequently over the last few years. They came through here, killed all of the inhabitants, then moved on. The PRT cleaned up the site, but nobody wants to live in places like this anymore, for exactly that reason.”  
  
Well shit. Trust Faultline to find us a bona fide ghost town to shack up in. No wonder Emily looks so nervous; this is about as uncomfortable reminder about the fragility of her safety net as you can get. Newter doesn’t seem to mind, leaning out the back of the truck to get a better view while Gregor and Elle are their usual impassive selves. Eventually, Newter stretches himself out like a cat and leaps out the back of the trailer.  
  
“Well, I don’t know about you guys but I’ve been stuck in that box for far too long. I’m gonna take a look around.”  
  
“Fine. Don’t enter any building that’s been sealed off. It either has leftover Slaughterhouse stuff, or it’s a safehouse made to look like it. Either way, not something I want you dealing with.”  
  
“Gotcha. Don’t poke stuff.”  
  
With that he’s gone, and I hit the release valve on my tank to follow. Eventually, everyone gives in to their curiosity, and makes their way out. Emily is the last to go, leaving with Elle’s hand in her own while the last fluid in my tank drains away. I lumber out of the trailer, wincing slightly under the harsh desert sun, and just set off in a random direction.  
  
I can sort of tell how the fight went by looking at the abandoned buildings around me. Every single pane of glass in this place has been shattered, ending up scattered all over the place. Some shards were embedded into walls like they’d been hurled at people, while others were just laying in the middle of the road, far from any window. There was other damage too, shattered walls, broken buildings and the like, but the glass is the thing that sticks with me.  
  
I think the fight started here; where the cars are all stationary and there’s much less damage. I say fight, but it looks to have been more of a massacre. The people here were caught unawares, there’s even some rotting food left on one of the tables. I think that’s somehow a little worse to see than the places further out, where the cars are scattered about the place as people tried to flee. Something catches my eye by the side of the road and I bend down to pick it up. It’s a human finger bone.  
  
I see an orange blur, as Newter zips past me on the next intersection, before doubling back and coming to a stop right in front of me.  
  
“Hey! We’ve found something cool. Come meet us over there,” he points offhandedly towards the edge of town, before bounding away again.  
  
I follow him, strolling down the centre of the cracked road, dodging around the occasional overturned car. I pass a dollar store with shattered windows, as well as a few long intersections in that typically uninspired grid pattern. When the buildings start to thin out, I begin to wonder if I’ve somehow passed them, when I start to make out a building at the end of the road. There’s a sign too, written in neat green letters upon a wooden board. ‘Enchanted Hot Springs, Monroe, Utah.”  
  
I chuckle to myself, and carry on walking. The main building is abandoned, as is to be expected, and none of the pools inside are full, what with the plant room having long since given up the ghost. There’re a few clothes still scattered about the changing rooms, but I don’t pry. Outside is a different story, as these pools are fed straight from the spring itself. They’re probably cleaner now than they were when the centre was in use. The two large pools right by the building are both empty, so I pace down a set of steps to the second area. That’s when I find them.  
  
Three small pools are set up against a stone wall, each bubbling with warm water. Gregor and Newter are sprawled out in the leftmost one, with Gregor seeming surprisingly unaffected by Newter’s chemicals. I guess the warm water is diluting them; he should be fine so long as he doesn’t drink any. Elle, Emily and Melanie are all in the middle pool, the two kids sitting close together while Melanie is on the other side of the pool, leaning back against the wall and talking into her phone.  
  
The third pool is empty, and that’s the one I head for, sliding under the water like a crocodile crawling into a swamp. I wait there for a moment, my crest just barely poking above the water, before rising up and leaning back against the wall, my tendrils spread out all around me. The sandy ground around the pool has turned a little slushy now, thanks to all the water my entrance displaced, but I couldn’t care less. I look around, taking in the scrublands that surround us, and the arid expanse of desert at out back.  
  
“I just can’t wrap my head around it,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.  
  
“Around what? Emily asks, spinning herself around so that she’s looking at me with her arms resting on the lip of the pool.  
  
“This place, this… country. On our way to Boston from Philadelphia, I saw more trees than I’ve ever seen in my life. Enormous forests, with a chill in the air and the whole ocean spread out from the roof of the Palanquin. Now we’re here, and I think I’m having a hard time coming to terms with it.”  
  
Gregor leans back in his pool, grinning sagely at me.  
  
“America is a big place. You could spend your whole life here, and never see it all. The world is even bigger.”  
  
Melanie hangs up, setting her phone down by the side of the pool, and everyone expectantly turns towards her.  
  
“There’s still no lead on Shamrock, apart from a suggestion that she might have gone into Arizona. We’ll spend the night here, then move south once we have a clearer picture. So,” she sinks into the water, her hands clasped behind her head to form a makeshift pillow, “we might as well get comfortable.”  
  
Newter sighs in contentment, while Emily starts to braid Elle’s hair, the little girl smiling ever so slightly. I drop completely beneath the water, holding myself amidst the heat and just experiencing the sensation on my skin. I have the blood oxygen reserves to do this for an hour if I want to, but I think I’ll pop back up soon, and just talk the night away with the others.  
  
Let tomorrow’s problems wait until tomorrow.


	50. Interlude: 777

I don’t know how long it is before the doctor comes back. I just know that I slept three times, though the level of light in this cursed place never changed. They didn’t feed me at all during this time, and my waking moments were spent lying on the bed, hunger pangs gnawing away at me. The tap still works, letting out a thin stream of cold water, so thank god for small mercies. No shower, though. It’s here, in the corner of the room, but there’s no visible sign of how to turn it on.  
  
I have become very familiar with my room. I know how many feet there are from one wall to the other, six, how the bed takes up two thirds of one wall and the combination shower and toilet takes up a third of the other side, with a sink on top of the toilet. There are nine feet from the rear wall to the glass screen that separates me form the featureless corridor.  
  
The corridor itself is perhaps eight feet wide, but I can’t use my feet to count it out, so I can’t be sure. There’s another cell on the other side, with another glass screen blocking it off from the corridor. As far as I can tell, there is no way for these screens to open, and the only feature on them is a small draw that can be slid in from the outside.  
  
There’s… something behind the screen opposite me. I hesitate to say a person, because they seem much more alien than that. He’s hunched over in a ball in the center of the cell, with his arms curled up around his chest and his knees drawn up close. Quills are growing from every possible surface of his body, giving his huddled form the appearance of an amoeba. He’s obviously terrified out of his poor mind, and I don’t think I’ve seen him move in all the time I’ve been watching him; he certainly doesn’t respond when I try to shout over to him from my cell.  
  
Eventually, I give up, self-conscious of my nakedness and determined not to waste my strength any longer. I just lie back down on the mattress and fall into a half-waking stupor, drifting in and out of sleep without caring for the nuances of time. It takes something new to snap me out of that haze, the sound of raised voices and the clack of heels on a concrete floor. I roll out of bed and onto my feet, dashing up to the glass like an eager dog. Part of me hates myself for it, but it is overridden by the desire to see something new, after days with nothing but the porcupine boy to look at.  
  
I back up from the glass when I see the doctor strolling down the corridor, weathering the pleading and insults directed to her by the unseen prisoners. She stops directly in front of my cell, and looks at me for a few moments as I beg for food in a weak voice, before placing her white bundle in the drawer, pushing it through into the cell. I pick it up, and by the time I look up the Doctor has already moved on to the cell opposite, putting another bundle through the hatch. I still haven’t heard her say anything to me.  
  
It’s clothes, of a sort. A set of pure white coveralls, with an Omega symbol stitched into both shoulders. I slip them on eagerly, fumbling with the unfamiliar zip before sitting back down on the bed, still tired, still hungry, but at least I have this semblance of my dignity. I lie back down, and return to that fitful slumber, imagining myself to be lying on a bed of grass in the gardens of Saint Augustine’s, or even back in the crowded barrack room in the Temple School. Anywhere familiar, really. Anywhere other than here.  
  
I only sleep once before the doctor comes again, this time closely followed by a man in white shirt and khaki trousers, with close-cropped blonde hair and a pair of spectacles bridging his nose. The two of them are talking, and they don’t stop as they come up to my cell.  
  
“-no visual deviation, indeed no sign of agent influences whatsoever.”  
  
The spectacled man stops in front of my cell and just looks at me, his hands loose by his side but his gaze scrutinizing and fierce. I feel like he’s weighing me up, and I can’t stop myself from backing away from the window.  
  
“Interesting…” he says, more to himself than to the Doctor, and certainly not to me. He takes off his glasses, passing them to the Doctor, before speaking again, this time to thin air.  
  
“Can you hold her?”  
  
There’s a sense of pressure on my arm, and I squirm away. The pressure multiplies, brushing over every part of my body, and my movements start to become slow and sluggish, almost as if I am being pulled back.  
  
“Stop.”  
  
The pressure drops, and my eyes dart around the room for some sign of my attacker, but there’s nothing. The man steps forward, speaking to the air again.  
  
“Door to cell seven-seven-seven.”  
  
There’s a distortion in the air in front of me, something I can feel, but only barely see. It widens, and the texture of the floor changes imperceptibly. The man steps forward again, and suddenly he has passed through the air and into my cell. I scramble backwards, slamming into the rear wall in shock, and he just slowly paces forwards as one hand curls into fists.  
  
“I suggest you defend yourself.”  
  
In my fear, I panic and launch myself at him, trying to claw his eyes out. He moves faster than I can really understand, and instead I barely nick his cheek. Without thinking, I try to throw myself back as he goes in for a punch, but I’m just a little too slow and his fist slams into my gut. I bend double, coughing and wheezing, and, when I look up, he’s back on the other side of the glass, accepting his spectacles from the Doctor. He turns to his companion, ignoring me once again.  
  
“Probability manipulation, likely caused by unconscious clairvoyance and micro-telekinesis. Here,” he pulls a small copper coin out of his pocket, “you might find this useful.”  
  
The pair move to leave, and I just can’t contain myself any longer. I rush up to the glass, placing my palm up against it and trying to look the Doctor in the eye.  
  
“Please. I just want something to eat.”  
  
“I’ll leave you to it then,” the man speaks to the Doctor, not me, and doesn’t spare me a single look as he walks off.  
  
The Doctor holds the coin up to the light, before depositing it in the drawer and pushing it into my cell. I step over to it, not recognizing the currency or the face stamped on the side. I pick it up in confusion, and look up at the Doctor hesitantly.  
  
“Flip it. Heads, you eat. Tails, you don’t.”  
  
I feel tears welling up behind my eyes.  
  
“Please. I’m just so hungry.”  
  
Her gaze is as immutable as stone, and I weep openly as I rest the coin between thumb and forefinger, flipping it into the drawer. There’s a moment where I can’t even bring myself to look at it, before finally forcing myself.  
  
Heads. I let out a breath I hadn’t even known I was holding in, and grin at the Doctor, who just looks as impassive as ever.  
  
“Someone will bring food shortly. Keep the coin, Triple-Seven.”  
  
Those coin tosses become the metric by which I measure time. The Doctor will come, great me with a passionless order to flip a coin, and, depending on the result, will either place the plate of food she’s carrying in the drawer, or just take it and walk away. Eleven coin flips have passed before I realize they want me to determine the results of the flip, rather than feeding me based on random chance. I can interact with the coin somehow; if I want it to come up heads, if I tell myself that it will come up heads, then more often than not, it does.  
  
After my twenty-first coin flip, the shock of my captivity has worn off, and I start to feel defiant. The next time the doctor arrives, I refuse to flip the coin.  
  
“Seven-seven-seven,” she addresses me, “flip the coin.”  
  
“That’s not my name!” I scream and wail, beating my fists against the glass.  
  
She pauses, just for a second, before speaking again.  
  
“The person you were before is dead. Their name has already passed on, forgotten. This is the afterlife; a second chance.”  
  
She turns and walks away, leaving the coin unflipped and me without food. I don’t know how long she’s gone for, without any coin flips to measure time, but I soon fall back into that agonizing half-sleep, as the hunger pangs hit me worse than ever before. When she finally comes back, she calls me by number again, and tells me to flip the coin. I don’t complain, but the coin comes up tails anyway. It’s heads the next time, though. I make sure of that.  
  
Eventually, it’s heads every time. I enjoy regular meals and showers for twelve consecutive coin tosses, before the Doctor places a second coin in the tray. I have to flip both of them now, and they both have to come up heads every time. After one hundred and sixty-five coin tosses, she adds a third one. Then it’s a die. It takes me less and less time to get used to each new variable, conceptualizing the desired outcome in my head. Through it all, the Doctor only ever tells me to roll the die, then leaves without saying anything else.  
  
I miss talking to people; the porcupine boy opposite me moves around his cell now, but he doesn’t speak any language I recognize. We try and get by on charades, but it’s hopeless. He just can’t understand me, and gets angrier and angrier the more he tries. One day, he starts beating his fists against the wall, then he steps back. His spines seem to shake and shimmer, before hurtling off his body against the glass. It collapses under the weight of thousands of needles, and he steps over the shattered remnants even as they slice into his bare feet.  
  
The moment he passes beyond the boundary of the cell, he’s flung back by a force that sends him skidding across the floor. He tries again, firing forwards a brace of spines that swerve erratically through the air, a few of them spearing partially through my glass. The force hits him again and he goes down, held to the floor by an intangible grip. After a while, he moves again, but makes no effort to leave the cell. The shattered glass and spent spines sweep themselves up into a pile, which then travels off down the hallway. Nobody bothers to replace the glass, but the boy never leaves again.  
  
I go to sleep one night, or day, and, when I wake up, I’ve lost count. I can’t remember how many times, I’ve flipped a coin, or rolled a dice. How many meals I’ve eaten, or showers I’ve had, or fresh coveralls I’ve been given. I’ve lost track of all the little luxuries they offered me, all the things I used to count the passage of time, the only awareness of time I’ve known since I got here.  
  
I scream and wail, pulling at my hair before leaping out of the bed and bashing my fists against the walls. I drive my hands over and over into the hard concrete until they start to scrape and bleed, but I don’t care. I just do the same with first my feet and then my head, until I’m throwing myself against the walls. I feel that same invisible force pushing me back, trying to stop me for beating myself to death. I fight it, trying and failing to break past its constant shoving. As I do, I start to calm down. I notice that, each time it presses against me, it’s getting every so slightly weaker, its hold just a little less firm.  
  
That’s what makes me stop, what makes me tear my bedsheets into bandages and wrap them around my bleeding limbs. I just lie back on the bed, weeping over my lost time, and think. They’re making me stronger, with their coins and their dice, stronger even than the thing watching over this place. I can’t beat it, not yet, but I may be able to in time.  
  
So, I stop fighting. I don’t beat my fists against the wall, I don’t object when the Doctor asks me to roll five dice, when she calls me by a number rather than a name. I weather the insults to my dignity and humanity, knowing that it will make me stronger. Time passes, but I no longer count it. I know I am older; I traded eight dice, each of which had to come up a six, for a set of new coveralls once I outgrew the old pair. I endure; existing, rather than living.  
  
Then, on a meaningless day like any other, a doorway opens up in my cell. A small square in the wall that unfurls itself until it’s looking out onto a short corridor. I don’t know what to do, so I just wait for someone to step through. When it is clear that no one is coming, I edge my foot through the gap and step outside my cell for the first time. The corridor is narrow, and I start to panic in the confined space, feeling the walls closing in on me as I almost run down the corridor as it curves to the left, before ending in a simple metal door on the left-hand wall. I open it, stumbling through into a space almost twice as big as my cell.  
  
The room, and it is more of a room than a cell, has white painted plastered walls rather than bare concrete, with a white ceiling and actual carpeting. There’s a bed in one corner with a real duvet and pillow, a chest of drawers, and a deep couch on the other side of the wall. One corner of the room has been walled off, and might contain a bathroom. The simple luxury of it floors me, even if it is all done up in the same white colour. The only thing in the room that isn’t white is a strange machine next to the bathroom; a flat rubber surface with a series of buttons raised up on a waist-high plinth.  
  
The Doctor is standing in the center of it all, a wry smile on her mouth as she takes in my naked awe.  
  
“You’ve done well, triple-seven.”  
  
I don’t know what to say, so I just clasp my hands in front of me, like I did before the Quartermaster of the Temple, a lifetime ago. It feels strange, to put that false face back on after so long.  
  
“There is an option available to those Parahumans who most exceed our expectations. You can walk out that door and you would find yourself back in that cell. You would continue to be subject Seven-Seven-Seven and would remain there indefinitely.”  
  
She pauses, letting that sink in, and I just stand there impassively.  
  
“Or,” she continues, “you can stay here, and join our staff. You’ll have to work for it, but you will enjoy more privileges as a result.”  
  
It doesn’t take me long to decide.  
  
“I would like that, ma’am.”  
  
With a start, I realize those words are the first I have spoken aloud since my ill-fated outburst. I don’t even recognize the sound of my own voice.  
  
“Good. The first privilege is a new name. We encourage our staff to chose names that reflect their abilities, and the role they will play in our organization. I, for example, chose to name myself the Doctor, and some others have since come to call me Mother. Those two names embody who I am. You have already encountered the Custodian, who maintains our facilities.”  
  
The ghost. A fitting name for a jailer. In truth, I cannot bring myself to be upset at yet another new name. My old identity already feels like little more than a distant dream, but perhaps I want to keep some part of it intact. I need something that plays to my powers, because that’s all they care about, while being something to bring back memories of home, so that I can keep hold of who I really am. The luck of the Irish.  
  
“Shamrock. Call me Shamrock.”  
  
“Very well,” the Doctor says impassively, “I believe you could become a valuable field operative to us, given time.”  
  
She steps around me, pausing on the threshold of the door.  
  
“Your first order is to improve your physical fitness.”  
  
With that, she’s gone. The first thing I do is throw myself onto the sofa, sinking deep into the plush leather. The second is to open up the bathroom door, standing in pure awe before washing off my sweat in the large shower, ringed by a glass screen. I spend a few hours just luxuriating in this new opulence, before turning my mind to her orders. I made a token effort at exercise in my last cell, but I need to redouble my efforts now.  
  
I fall into a routine of exercise and rest, press ups and sit ups followed by an hour or so on the strange running machine. Over time, the loose skin on my legs tightens as new muscles grow into place, and I notice that my meals are getting larger to match the amount of exercise I’m putting in. I still have to roll twelve dice to actually receive them, but controlling the fall of so many variables has become simplicity itself. My body becomes toned, at an all-around level of fitness that I’ve never had before, and I sometimes spend my time just admiring my new muscles in the mirror. The waif of a girl from Tiperrary is gone now, and an athletic young woman has taken her place.  
  
The Doctor comes by one morning, a light switch and a clock having given back my sense of time, and leaves me a set of clothes. They’re made of a black material, that’s almost like leather, and their cut is tighter than any clothes I’ve ever worn before. The whole thing is a skintight black bodysuit, with an image of a green clover on the chest, smooth to the touch and surprisingly flexible. If I hadn’t developed a slight narcissism around my newly athletic body, and a willingness to do anything I need to get through this, I would likely have refused to wear it on principle.  
  
The strangest part is the green mask that covers the upper half of my face, framing my face before meeting up with the neck of the bodysuit but leaving my chin exposed. There’s a belt of empty pouches that goes around my waist, and a couple of holsters too, one for a pistol on my thigh and another for a knife that goes on the side of the outfit’s right boot. All are empty, but it’s a sign of what’s to come.  
  
Once I’m dressed, another portal opens up in my wall, leading to a room of grey concrete. I step through without hesitation, and the wall closes up behind me. The ceiling is low, and I feel a little claustrophobic again. I look around the room to distract myself, seeing a long firing range with targets at one end and wooden stands for the shooters. There are posters on the walls, written in an unfamiliar language and alphabet, and a solid steel door that’s been locked shut.  
  
I wait there for a few minutes, until a man comes in dressed in a green camouflage uniform, wearing a blue beret on his head. There’s a patch on his shoulder, something red on a black background, but I can’t make it out before he’s barking orders into my face.  
  
“Listen up. I have been ordered to teach you how to use firearms, nothing more. I do not care about who you are, so don’t bother telling me. Do what I say, and we won’t have any troubles. Understand, girl?”  
  
I straighten my shoulders, locking my hands behind my back like an army recruit.  
  
“Yes sir!”  
  
He nods wordlessly, stepping over to a wooden table with a single pistol resting on it. We spend hours together, looking over the weapon. The first day is spent on safety procedures and drills, and the next, and the next, until I can strip and reassemble the weapon instinctively. Only then does he move on to teaching me how to shoot, using my power to plant rounds into the center of the targets at the end of the range. He realizes early on that I don’t really need to aim to hit the target, so he has me fire while running or jumping or even shooting blind behind me. Each time, I visualize the bullet hitting my target, and my power ensures it happens.  
  
We do the same with rifles, spending days on safety and cleaning before running through the firing drills until the weapon is second nature to me. Once that weapon has been mastered, he brings out something different, placing a short-barreled shotgun on the table in front of me.  
  
“I do not like shotguns,” he growls, “they are the weapons of gangsters and thugs. Real soldiers rely on accurate fire, which a shotgun cannot give. But you, girl, are a little different.”  
  
He hands me a red case, primed and loaded.  
  
“There are roughly one hundred and sixteen pellets in this shell. You will see that I have stretched some bedsheets behind the targets. I want you to keep every one of those pellets on the target, without hitting any of the sheeting between them.”  
  
It takes me three days to get enough of a handle on the shotgun drills that he will let me shoot, and another six days of shooting before I can get every pellet onto the targets. By the end, though, each target is getting torn to shreds by carefully scattered pellets, while the sheets are going back to whatever poor soldiers he stole them from. With that, he declares my shooting skills ‘adequate’, and I never see him again.  
  
I have other lessons, though. Lessons on subterfuge and assassination, and language lessons on how to speak Russian and Chinese. I’m taught martial arts, then taught how to fuel those new skills with my power until I can take on my trainers and win. Dozens of lessons in dozens of unfamiliar rooms, always indoors and always alone. They’re grooming me for something, that much is clear, but I can’t understand what.  
  
When it finally happens, it’s not the Doctor who comes to get me. Instead, the spectacled man from my earliest days steps into my room without being invited. He orders me to change into my costume, then waits outside for me to come and join him. The small corridor outside my room leads around the corner and onto a wider thoroughfare like the one outside my cell. There’s a label on the wall: ‘Seven Seven Seven: Shamrock.’ The thoroughfare continues along the featureless corridor before ending at a heavy steel bulkhead. Each room has its own placard, with its own name next to it. There’s another portal in the center of the room, a patch of grubby carpet amidst the concrete. The spectacled man is standing next to it, waiting for me.  
  
“This portal leads to a motel room, room number four. You are to wait there until another agent greets you, then proceed to room twenty-six. Kill anyone inside, then return to room four for extraction. The target is a parahuman, so don’t underestimate them. Understood?”  
  
“Yes sir,” I nod, even as my mind races. He waits for me to step through the portal, which closes behind me. I’m left alone in an ugly room with fading wallpaper and cream sheets on a double bed. The curtains are drawn, and there’s a television bolted to the wall.  
  
This is my chance.


	51. Hunter: 8.01

The sun here is unbearable…  
  
There’s no escaping it, not unless you want to spend your whole day indoors, with the curtains drawn tight and the air con on full. At least this place has a pool, though the light often reflects blindingly off the surface. I don’t deal well with this sort of ceaseless bright light; I guess it was something we overlooked in the initial build. Not like we were ever expecting to hold outdoor fights, after all. It’d be hard to keep them underground under the open sky. Still, it’s kind of nice to wallow in the water, my head poking just above the edge, while the real work is done off in the distance. Like some kind of alligator, just waiting for an unsuspecting leg to get within biting distance.  
  
The motel isn’t much, just an L-shaped building with a pool and a car park, but it’s ours for as long as Faultline keeps paying the owners. Don’t even have to worry about the other guests either; apparently the Slaughterhouse Nine hit three towns a few hours east of here, on their way to New Mexico, which is apparently also in America. They don’t generally double back on places, but mere proximity to them is apparently enough to drive away all but the most determined travelers, and those are nowhere to be seen in nowhere towns like Ash Fork.  
  
It’s a shitty excuse for a town, even smaller than Monroe, built onto the side of the I40, which a lot of the locals insist on calling Route 66 for some undeterminable reason. The owners of the town’s one motel were all too happy to rent the place out to us, and a little extra cash bought us cooked meals, privacy and, above all else, silence. We won’t be bothered here, which means we can plan our operation in peace.  
  
Ash Fork has one redeeming feature to us; its location. It’s in the upper center of the state, on the edge of one of the major thoroughfares from Las Vegas and in the perfect position to investigate the whole state for Shamrock. She’s gone to ground somewhere, likely doing what we’re doing and staying in some shitty motel for a couple of days while all the people that’re looking for her scour the state. We have a little lead on most of them, thanks to Faultline’s snoopers spotting her heading eastbound out of Vegas. They weren’t able to trail her for long, but we’ve got feelers out there looking for her car.  
  
Or, rather, Faultline does. Not much use for a spot of muscle in this part of the plan, so I’m mostly just hanging around the pool. I like to think I’m providing the odd collection of goons and private dicks with a spot of eye candy. They’re an odd bunch; apparently it’s quite common for groups like ours to need a little human help, so there’s an entire industry of skilled mooks thriving in the shadows. Need a lockpicker for a heist? Here’s an old geezer looking for a bit of cash in his retirement. Need a couple of guys to carry shit without asking questions? They’ve got that too.  
  
Normally these guys’d be running the show. Men like them, with all they know? They’d be leading gangs of thieves, or at least teaching up a few proteges. Capes changed that, like they’ve changed everything else. Now all that matters are the parahuman gangs, or parahuman teams like ours. So the old guys adapted, they unionized. Whenever a gang needs a lockpicker, or some independent villain needs his shit moved from one place to another, they’ll be there. If they can’t lead the new criminal underworld, they can at least profit from it.  
  
I push off the far wall of the pool, shooting myself across to the other side. I’m there in an instant, the pool is only twice as long as I am, but it still feels freeing to move through the water. The only restriction is the depth, but I’m sure the owners won’t mind the few scrapes I’ve made on the tiled floor. With what we’re paying them, they’d better not. Someone’s watching me when I surface. Dark-skinned, wearing loose and tattered jeans with a ratty green tank top whose plunging neckline works wonders for her chest, as well as one of those wide-brimmed hats that every bitch and bastard seems to wear down here. On her way into middle age, but she hasn’t let herself go just yet. Looking at her, I’d say she’s no stranger to exercise. She’s holding a lit cigarette near her mouth, and is looking at me with interest rather than confusion or horror.  
  
“How’s the water?”  
  
“Cool. Pool’s a little on the small side.”  
  
My voice doesn’t come from my mouth, of course, but from the voice box I set aside a little way back from the edge of the pool. Never bothered to ask Cranial how it would hold up to water damage, so I’m playing it safe for now. The smoker’s eyes flick over to the device for a second, but her head doesn’t turn from me.  
  
“That’s a neat trick,” she observes offhandedly, “I hate to break it to you sugar, but the pool isn’t the thing that’s too big.”  
  
“You calling me fat?” I snark back at her.  
  
“With a waist like that?” she grins, “Not on your life, girl, you’re just big boned.”  
  
“Well thanks for noticing. A lot of effort’s gone into this body.”  
  
She laughs, dropping her cigarette and stubbing it out under the heel of her hiking boot. As my eyes drift down her legs, I notice the pistol strapped to her thigh.  
  
“As fun as it would be to stand here flirting with you,” she continues, “I’m afraid I just don’t swing that way.”  
  
“Which way,” I retort, “women, or giant tentacle monsters?”  
  
“Either, if I’m being honest. Just stirring the pot,” she smirks, “I’m here to meet someone called ‘Faultline’. Know where I can find her, hun?”  
  
I detach one of my tendrils, pointing with it to a pair of open patio doors on the ground floor of the motel building, a section of the building that does double duty as a diner.  
  
“Through there. She’s the woman in the riot helmet, can’t miss her.”  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
She smiles at me, before walking off behind me. I turn to watch her leave, leaning back against the side of the pool with my arms out of the water and resting on the concrete. This is the life; cool water, sun, and a nice arse to watch. Only thing that could make it better would be a bottle of iced vodka and an enormous steak, cooked bloody rare. But nothing in life is perfect…  
  
A couple of white vans get waved through the gate, checked over by yet another hired mook. They’re rentals, or the closest thing to it you can get underground, vehicles with license plates that are exact copies of identical vehicles in the same state. You use one of them in a crime, and the police will waste time knocking over builders’ yards, while you just swap the plates out for another set. It’s how it used to be back at home, I knew a few kids who made a living nicking vans for just this sort of thing, but they faded out of popularity once the EU decided to bring in mandatory electronic chips for road vehicles. Those could be spoofed too, but at a considerably higher cost.  
  
It’s incredible, the amount of people Faultline’s been able to whip together in a few days. She always talked about her ‘contacts’, or her ‘sources’, or her ‘investigators’ but this is something else. She’s assembled a private intelligence network from scratch, on the other side of the country from where she usually works. I highly doubt any of them had ever met her before this, and a fair few won’t have ever heard the word Faultline outside of news stories about earthquakes. She has her trusted contacts up and down the East Coast, and she trusts the people they trust. That’s enough, with a couple more degrees of distance, to get together a reliable network of snoopers out in the arse end of nowhere.  
  
A door opens on the side of the motel, and a girl steps out. Emily’s dressed down for the summer, her boiler suit tied off at the waist to expose the black tank top she wears underneath the fireproof layer. The boiler suit was always more of an accessory than a practical measure; her skin’s resistant to her own flames, the suit was just there in case she ever accidentally dribbled napalm onto her clothes. She’s not immune to heat, though, and this far south that suit is a sweatbox. Her curly brown hair looks nice loose, normally it’s covered by the hood of the suit, but her freckles are still covered up by the gas mask.  
  
“Faultline wants to see us.”  
  
No ‘hey Sonnie, how are you?’ I’d put it down to her acting the professional, if I didn’t know she’s not the type. She’s still uneasy around me, still hesitant, but I don’t really know what I can do about it. So, I ignore it. I act like nothing’s wrong, talk to her like I always have, and hope that she’ll open up if given the chance.  
  
“No worries,” I say, as I use my tendrils to leap out of the pool. Not the spikes; I may not mind if I damage this thing but there’s no reason to be a bitch about it. That leaves me sopping wet by the side of the pool, water sliding down my leathery skin. My lips part in a grin, and Emily takes a hurried step back.  
  
“Don’t you dare!”  
  
I shake myself off like a dog, sending a brief bust of rain across the surface of the pool, the concrete around it, and the poor girl who’s still standing just a little too close to me. I turn to her, cocking my head in fake confusion.  
  
“What? You see a towel anywhere around here?”  
  
She’s forcing a scowl, but I can see a smile poking through.  
  
“That doesn’t mean you can shake yourself dry like a dog,” she reprimands me as the two of us start to walk to the motel, “just because you look like a monster doesn’t give you the excuse to act like one.”  
  
“A dog would be worse,” I drop to all fours, to put my head on a similar level to her own, “think of all the water their fur holds in. At least with me it just flows right off.”  
  
She sighs, but I don’t think she minds it half as much as she’s putting on. She can’t reconcile Sonnie, the friendly bird who treats her like a sister, and Khanivore, the monster who speared someone’s brains out right in front of her. Truth be told, sometimes I can’t work out the difference either.  
  
I slow down a little to let Emily through the French doors and into the motel itself, into the room Faultline’s been using as her command center. It’s a magnificent place, with neatly-woven Afghan carpets over a white marble floor, with a high ceiling supported by pillars and festooned with curtains of fine red silk. The place is furnished with comfortable furniture all in red, all set around a white marble table at the very center of the room that’s playing host to some decidedly out of place electronics and maps.  
  
If it seems a little upmarket for a shitty roadside motel, that’s because it is. The source of all this is currently reclining on a chaise lounge, sipping at a carton of orange juice with her full-face mask only half on. Faultline’s trying something new with Labyrinth, encouraging her to use her power while limiting its effects. In this case, she can make the room however she wants, but she has to keep the effect indoors, and she can’t touch any of the important technologies.  
  
I have to say, I like it a lot better than the whaling house up in Canada. That time, Faultline was looking for something that would be easily defensible, so she asked Elle to make something that would keep us safe while hurting anyone trying to stop us. This time, she asked Elle to make somewhere that makes her feel comfortable, and she seems a lot more at ease now. Rather than trying to suppress her power, and maybe bringing her back to us, it’s about keeping her aware enough to recognize us, but content with where she is. From the way a collection of red pillows seems to spring out of the marble floor, perfectly sized for me, I’d say it’s working.  
  
“Afraid there’s no time for rest right now,” Faultline says as I start to make my way over to the pile.  
  
She’s changed her outfit for the desert as well; no point in wearing her usual bulky armour if she’d just boil to death the moment she steps outside. The heavy metal welding mask has been replaced with a riot helmet made of some sort of ceramic, with a Toybox visor that’s grey and opaque on one side, while being completely transparent on the other. Bauble’s handiwork, if I remember correctly. Her robes were light, but not light enough, so they’ve been swapped out for a shemagh of the same colour that she’s draped over one shoulder like a half-cape, and her armor has been swapped out for a single plate carrier worn over a practical field-grey shirt and cargo trousers. The woman from outside is standing next to her, though her ridiculous hat has been left on the table. Her head is completely shaven.  
  
I pace over to the table, peering over Spitfire’s shoulder at the map of the state. Means nothing to me, but I like to make the effort anyway. There’re a few markers on it, for Ash Fork, Faultline’s web of snoopers, and a third symbol that must mark wherever Gregor and Newter went off to. Faultline reaches over and places a token down somewhere else, in the north-west of Arizona, before gesturing to her companion.  
  
“This is Amara Wade. She’s one of the local investigators I hired.” She turns to the spook, “Khanivore and Spitfire are two of my heavy hitters.”  
  
“We’ve met,” she smiles at me. Faultline shows no reaction, and I know she’d be just as stony faced without the mask.  
  
“Ms Wade will be investigating a motel for us. It’s only a few hours out of Las Vegas, but intercepted CCTV footage has confirmed that Shamrock spent the night there. Your job is to assist Miss Wade in her investigation, and to provide security. If you think it’s too dangerous, then pull out immediately. I don’t want anything going wrong.”  
  
“You think that’s likely?” I ask, “something going wrong?”  
  
“We’re not the only people looking for Shamrock. She defrauded the casinos. That means the Vegas corporate teams will be looking for her, to say nothing of the Elite or private bounty hunters. We can’t take any chances here.”  
  
“Sure as sure,” I nod.  
  
“Then get to it,” Faultline says, throwing a set of keys over to the investigator. She leaves first, and I follow after handing Elle another juice box from the fridge.  
  
Amara, Ms Wade? Whatever. The hired boffin steps up into the front of the van, with Spitfire taking the seat next to her. I fiddle with the back door for a second before heaving myself into the back, trying not to notice the way it sinks onto its suspension as I step in. Fortunately, none of the others comment on it, if they even notice it at all. Pretty soon, we’re off. Pulling out of the destitute dust ball of Ash Fork and onto the straight line of tarmac that is the I40, or Route 66 if you’re a weird local. I settle down as comfortable as I can in the back, while Wade briefly glances at Spitfire, who’s trying to act all adult in front of the adult.  
  
“Listen, hun, I know you people are weird about your masks, but not wearing a gas mask on a major freeway is actually a lot less likely to draw attention.”  
  
Spitfire hesitates for a second, no doubt a little take in by the comforting anonymity a mask provides, before she slips it off her head. Now she just has good old everyday anonymity to protect her.  
  
“Thanks,” she looks a little closer at the pyro, “Shouldn’t you be in school?”  
  
Spitfire snorts, flashing a driver a disbelieving glance.  
  
“Seriously? All this, and that’s the thing you choose to pick up on?”  
  
“Hey, I used to be a cop. I’ll have you know I take truancy very seriously,” she says in a mockingly stern tone.  
  
“Bit of an odd career change,” I pipe up from the back, “how’d you go from the millicents to driving a van full of supervillains?”  
  
She smiles oddly, staring off into space for a few moments, before answering.  
  
“I stuck with the police long enough to be made a detective, but the higher-ups kept pushing me to take a command promotion, something about good optics for the department. I liked being a detective, so I figured I’d quit and see if I could make a living as a private eye. It worked out for a while, but my savings eventually ran out. So I changed career again. It’s pretty similar, odd jobs like this not included. Most of my time is still spent photographing men cheating on their wives, but the clients are different and the pay’s a lot better.”  
  
I snort, poking my head above the front seats to get a look at the open road before being waved right back down by the ex-cop as we pass a police speed trap. She switches on the radio, turning the antiquated dial until she finds a station that’s broadcasting the local news.  
  
“-gotiations between the PRT and Seraphim have entered their fifth day. Travel is still restricted across Gila County, with Federal law enforcement officers limiting access to the area around Seraphim’s compound in Young. Earlier today, Haven formally expelled Seraphim from their organization, with Rosary releasing a statement regarding the decision: ‘God’s truth must be open and seen by all. By concealing her activities from the world, Seraphim has demonstrated that her values are no longer in line with Haven’s. We remain fully committed to cooperating with local and federal law enforcement, and wholeheartedly condemn Seraphim’s actions. We can only pray that she will see sense, and that a peaceful resolution can be reached.’ We go now to Young, Gila County, where our very own Steph McGowan is on the scene. Steph?”  
  
I groan, tipping my head back in exasperation.  
  
“I thought I left all this religion bollocks behind!”  
  
Amara starts to laugh, driving the car with one hand while turning back to look at me.  
  
“If you’re trying to get away from religion, then what the heck are you doing in Arizona?”  
  
Emily starts laughing as well, and pretty soon we’re laughing like lunatics all the way down the I40, two freaks and a human sweltering in a white van slap bang in the middle of the desert.


	52. Hunter: 8.02

Route forty gives way to the ninety-three, a stretch of road that runs arrow straight through the deep desert, all the way up to Vegas. Shamrock would have driven down the other way when she skipped town. If she’d have gone straight on, then she could’ve been in Phoenix in under five hours, but that’s not what we think she did. Amara explained her thinking to us on the way, not like there was much else to do in the back of the van. Nothing except gently roast in this fucking oven of a vehice for three hours with a marinade of white wine and a sprig of rosemary.

“We’ve been backtracking her progress before Vegas,” she begins, pulling the van off the highway and onto an even less impressive road that runs even deeper into the desert, “trying to build up a picture of how she’s likely to behave this time. One thing’s for sure, she’s not in a hurry to get anywhere. She stole a car in Florida, we think, then travelled overland to Las Vegas, changing out her vehicle every two days or so. She made far more overnight stops than she needed to, and it looks like she’s doing the same right now. That’s good and bad. It’s good, because it means there’s a smaller area we need to cover, but it’s bad because she’s not stopping in the same spots someone making a long journey normally would.”

I nod sagely, poking my head past the two of them to look out at the countryside, or what passes for countryside. There’s next to nobody on this shitty little road, so I don’t need to worry about peeping Toms alerting the bruiseboys. It’s not desert in the rolling sand dunes sense, and there’s the occasional weed clinging on for life, but the whole place screams desolate wasteland to me. We left the tarmac behind ages ago, but this dirt road is still smooth as anything, with no rain or mud to churn it up. Other dirt tracks branch off it at regular intervals, but they don’t seem to go anywhere. After the fifth one, I decide to ask our local guide while we still have her.

“Oh, them? That’s a town, or it might be someday. Developers like to buy up loads of land on the cheap, then divide it up into blocks with street names and everything. I guess they’re thinking that if they build the roads, they might be able to lure in some property developers. With how cheap land is out here, they can turn a profit even if only a tenth of their ‘towns’ actually get built.”

I chuckle, mostly to myself.

“Wouldn’t see that back home…”

“What do you mean?”

I humor her curiosity.

“Land’s at a premium there. If you want to build anything, you’ve got to weave your way through changing the classification of the land from whatever it was being used as before, that’s a battle in and of itself. Then you put in your planning permission, so that all the nosy old bitches in the area can get their chance to winge about how you block of flats doesn’t match the ‘character of the area’, or some shit like that. Once that’s out of the way you’re golden, ‘cept you still have to worry about protected trees or listed buildings that you can’t touch no matter what, even if their half dead and rotted with disease or so fragile on the inside that a stiff breeze’d knock them over.”

Amara and Spitfire stare out over the desert for a few moments, with Amara flicking off the ashes of her cigarette out the open window.

“I didn’t know it was so tightly packed in England,” she begins, “still, you’ve got a lot of lovely buildings out there, be a shame to knock ‘em all down just ‘cos it’s easy.”

“Maybe…” I reply, thinking back to Dicko’s church. There was something nice there, I guess, underneath the broken glass and the bits that had been knocked aside to build his arena. Still, the whole place was a dump, and there might have been a reason it was slated for demolition. After all, someone had to decide where the pillars for the new urban dome would go. Why bother disturbing the expensive new arcologies when you can just knock down the shit part of the city, the part nobody’s cared about in centuries?

“We’re almost there, hun,” Amara turns to Spitfire, “y’all might want to put your mask back on.”

As Spitfire fumbles with her gas mask, I pipe up from the back, pausing for a moment to run my thumb down the length of my razor-tipped claws.

“What’s the play? You’re the investigator here.”

She doesn’t respond, instead holding the wheel steady between her knees while tying a bandanna around her face. Spitfire, her face sealed behind her gas mask, looks a little shocked. I, for one, couldn’t be happier with how this is shaping up.

“I though we were going to hang back while you talked your way into her room?”

“Well yeah,” she responds, “that’s what I’d normally do. If I had time. We’re not the only people looking for her, so we play this hard and fast. I’ll investigate her room, and her car if she left it behind, while you two get everything you can out of the staff. There should be one on the front desk, and maybe one or two more in an office. You got a gun?”

Spitfire looks mortified.

“No I don’t have a gun!”

“Here, take mine,” Amara replies, nonplussed, as she pulls her pistol out of its holster and passes it over to Spitfire, tossing it onto the girl’s lap when she won’t take it. I lean over to my teammate.

“Spitfire. We’re going to have to scare these people. I’ll take the front desk, but I need you to get any others out of the office. If you wanted to scare them with your power, then you’d have to use it, maybe set fire to the place. The gun is scary on its own; you don’t need to shoot it at all.”

“Okay… But I’m keeping the safety on.” she hesitantly picks up the gun, feeling the weight of it in her hand. She briefly looks around for somewhere to put it, but her outfit doesn’t have any holsters. In the end, she just grips it tightly by the grip.

The town stretches out in front of us, a ramshackle collection of buildings loosely scattered across the surface of the desert. We pass a sign, with a proud name and population number.

“Chloride? Who names their fucking town Chloride?”

“Miners did. This whole place was built up around chemical mining. None of that now, of course, but the name stayed.”

We move into the town itself, mostly empty at this time of the day but with a few civilians wandering around, and a couple of cars on the road. The appropriately named miner’s inn is at the center of the town, near to some kind of museum and a public library. It’s a squat thing, with a car park, a single floor of rooms for rent and a small diner next door, not much else. There’s a couple of cars parked out front: two trucks and a four-door saloon car, whose silver metal has gathered a faint coat of dust.

“Bingo. That’s her car.”

“Great,” I pipe up, “shout if you spot trouble. We’ll get you her room number from the staff.”

The PI brings the van to a screeching halt right in front of the office, kicking up a cloud of dust. I’ve got the side door open before we’ve left the road, and I’m out and running before the wheels stop. The double doors have metal frames around glass, so I just barrel through them and into the office. There’s a kid behind the counter, some spotty teen wearing a polo shirt, who starts to scramble back before I pounce. My claws wrap around the scruff of his neck, and a haul him over the top of the desk before slamming him into the opposite wall.

I spot Spitfire out the corner of my eye, crunching through the broken glass before vaulting over the desk with her gun out in front of her, her curly brown hair whipping behind the faceless lenses of her gas mask. There’re shouts from the back room, before she returns pushing two people in front of her with the barrel of her gun. The first is obviously just an employee, a spotty teen girl to match the spotty teen boy I’ve got pressed up against the wall, but the other one must be the owner, with his pot-bellied middle-aged body and receding hairline.

“This one,” Spitfire begins, jamming her gun into the back of the bastard, “went for a shotgun.”

“Did he now?” I ask, releasing my grip on the lad, who slides down the wall and into a heap.

“That wasn’t very smart…”

My open palm slams into his chest, pressing him into the wall hard enough to dent the shoddy plaster.

“Want to be a hero, eh? Here’s your chance. Answer every question I ask, honest like, and you’ll get the chance to save these worthless shits.” I gesture behind me, as Emily keeps her gun trained on the kids.

“Question one,” I lean in close, and he flinches back from my hot breath, “is this all the staff?”

His eyes flick over to the kids, briefly, and with an awful lot of concern in them. More than spotty teens usually merit.

“Family business.”

Spitfire swears, and the look in the owner’s eyes tells me I’ve got the right of it.

“Find the missus,” I snap at Spitfire, even as I slam the owner into the opposite wall, so that I can keep him and the kids in my line of sight, “she might be cleaning the rooms!”

Spitfire dashes out, going room to room, and I turn my attention back to the prisoners.

“That silver car belonged to a girl we’re interested in. White, smoking hot, maybe a ginger, maybe not. Talk.”

“She’s what this is about?” he cries out angrily. I detach two tendrils, placing the two-foot-long spikes of bone right underneath his kids’ chins.

“Do I look like I have time for this shit? Sonner you talk, sooner I’ll fuck off.”

“Fuck! Alright! She stayed for about four of nights, paid cash, at her meals in the diner next door. She disappeared after that, left her car.”

“What room?”

“Four.”

I shout the number out through the open doorway, waiting only as long as it takes for Amara to respond before moving on to my next line of questioning.

“If she left her car, how’d she skip town?”

“Th-the sheriff came round the next day, said Anderson’s truck had been stolen from outside the general store! Left a piece of paper with a description!”

“Where?” I growl, leaning in closer.

“Noticeboard,” he groans as my arm presses against his chest. I reach up with my left hand to the cork board, tearing off a sheet of paper with a black and white picture of a truck, impaling it on one of my antennae for later.

I’ve only just turned my attention back to him when I hear the squeal of tires on tarmac as Spitfire shouts a warning.

“Get out here, Khanivore! We’ve got company!”

I drop the owner to the floor, stepping over him as he moves to huddle with his kids.

“Stay here!” I shout over my shoulder. They won’t, of course, but I get the feeling we’ll be bugging out anyway.

I crunch through the broken glass as I pace out of the building, rapidly blinking away my discomfort at the bright sun. Two vehicles have squealed to a halt on the other side of the street, a dirty old technical followed by a pristine white SUV. Two masked women get out of the pickup, and I can see what looks like a camera crew filming through the SUV. The women are clearly capes, with one of them dressed in too-short shorts and a plaid shirt, while the other is rocking some tight biker leathers. Both have bandannas around their faces, and shorts looks like she’s spoiling for a fight. Our pet PI takes one look at them, before screaming at Spitfire.

“Burn the car and the room! Now!”

Not friendly then. Spitfire looks at me in a brief moment of confusion, but I’m already tearing the door off one of the parked pickup trucks.

“Do it! Get the engine started, spook!”

I’m about to throw my improvised weapon at the two capes, when a cloud of sand suddenly billows up behind the two capes, before rolling forward to consume them entirely. I can’t see them anymore.

“Don’t let her touch you!” Amara shouts as she sprints for out vehicle.

Which ‘her’? Shit. Just play it safe.

The localized sandstorm is slowly creeping forward, and there’s no way of telling where the capes are in that abrasive mess. They could roll it over us at any time, unless I can distract them. My eyes alight on the white SUV, parked a dozen meters outside the storm, and the four film crewmen who are standing around it, filming the sandstorm, the motel, and me.

I hurl the door at them, sending the hunk of metal spinning through the air, before embedding into the engine of the truck, and nearly embedding into one of the camera crew. Not like I can be expected to aim at this distance. I hear a couple of gunshots off to my left, and catch a glimpse of Spitfire standing in front of the silver car, having shot out one of the windows with her pistol. She spews fire across the interior of the car, before running off to Shamrock’s motel room.

The sandstorm reacts to my attack on the camera crew by enveloping them in a cloud of sand, blocking them from view and, from the way the storm reduces on one side while expanding on the other, confirming that there’s a shape limit to her powers, not a radius. She could have the sand in a perfect sphere around her, or all of it out in front with her tucked away in a corner.

Somehow, she spots the flames pouting out of Shamrock’s car, constricting her area even more in an attempt to smother the flames with sand. I can’t tell what’s going on inside the cloud, but it looks like Spitfire’s flames are still burning fine, so I look around, desperate for something to help me fight a cape I can’t touch. My eyes settle on the flagpole right outside the motel, twice my height and topped with an American flag being buffeted around by whatever wind the cape is using to control this much sand. I drive two tendrils into the base, shearing my way through enough of the metal that I can rip the flagpole free from its mounting, before lowering it in front of me like an enormous pike.

I draw myself up to my full height and run up to the sand cloud, idly noting that the camera crew have been freed from the storm and are back to filming the whole thing, and start to wave the pole through the mass of sand at roughly chest height, feeling a satisfying thud travel through my hands as the storm starts to go haywire, revealing the biker leathers cape lying prone on the ground with shorts next to her, clutching at her chest. I might have cracked a rib with that hit, but I can’t find it in me to care.

Instead I raise the pole up, ready to hit them when I’m down, only for the sand to reform, a smaller storm than before, in a whirling maelstrom of force that tears at my pike. I feel the weight of the weapon decrease in an instant, and pull it back to see that it’s been entirely sheared off in the middle, the white paint on the rest of it having been eaten away to the bear metal. Then the ravenous cloud starts to move towards me, and I spring myself back with my tendrils, landing right next to our van.

The sand leaps forwards again, growing weaker in exchange for size, and envelops me completely. I can’t see shit inside the cloud, except the red glow of the burning motel, but I force myself to keep my eyes open in spite of the abrasive dust. Can’t let them touch me. I hear the engine of out van roar into life, and sent a probing tendril out behind me until I can feel the metal sides. I use that tendril like a lifeline as I dart back, feeling my way into the van rather than seeing it. A black silhouette spears out of the sand in front of me, and I hurriedly dart back into the vehicle.

I catch a glimpse of small flames through the cloud, as Spitfire lets out small bursts of her power like a lighthouse, and haul the girl up into the van, which pulls out of the storm once I give the word, scattering dust in out wake. Spitfire’s shell-shocked, clinging to my hand for dear life, but I push her towards the open rear doors of the van. I can see the two capes chasing us in their pickup truck, a truly massive storm following in their wake.

“Burn the road!” I shout, repeating it until Spitfire’s shocked out of her funk. She gets on her hands and knees at the very back of the van, her head over the open road, and starts to spew out a steady stream of burning liquid onto the tarmac. Amara weaves the van from side to side to cover as much road as possible, while I wrap a tendril around Spitfire’s waist to keep her steady, and stop her from falling out in her daze.

Soon enough, our pursuers are lost behind the acrid black smoke that rises from the tarmac as it melts and burns. I haul the poor girl back in, closing the doors behind me, and collapsing onto the floor of the van. We all just carry on in silence for a few minutes, too shocked to comprehend what just happened, until a flash of memory has me rolling to my feet, and the van shaking on its suspension.

I paw at my antenna in desperation, before being flooded with relief as I pull off a crumpled sheet of paper, the text scored but legible. It’s not much of a lead over whoever the fuck those bastards were, these posters would have been put up all over town, but it’s better than nothing.


	53. Hunter: 8.03

I’m breathing hard. In and out, in and out. It’s partly stress, but I’m also wilting in this heat. I’m panting like a fucking dog, hauling air through my lungs so that it’ll evaporate and cool me down. That last fight was brief, but the temperature here is well outside safe operating limits, and even a little exercise is heating me up far more than it should. It’s a double-edged sword; I need to cool down, but if I’m breathing too fast then I might end up outpacing my lungs if I don’t get regular stints in the tank. I don’t even have any nostrils, and my lungs weren’t exactly designed to carry the strain of my body on their own. There’s enough slack in the safety limits for them to work alright in a reasonable temperature, but not down here.

If Newter was here, he’d probably make some snide comment about bitches in heat. I’d probably even laugh. As it is, we’re all a little too shocked for that. Spitfire’s got the worst of it, with friction burns on her arms from the sand. She’s curled up in the corner of the van, her head held in her hands. There’re patches of sand in the crevices of her gas mask, in the folds of her clothing. I can feel it too, on the small patches of unarmored skin around my jaw, where the grey flesh gives way to the flexible pink skin beneath. The moment we get back, I’m going straight back in the pool till all this is off, then back in the tank until my body’s fixed.

What worries me is the broken flagpole I left behind. That bitch in the shorts could have flayed me alive, could have peeled off my exoskeleton with bladelike waves of sand, or simply eaten away at my flesh and stripped me to the bone. To say nothing of the other bitch, the one who got Amara so spooked that she told us to burn the place to the ground, rather than let her anywhere near it. I bring the piece of paper, my one prize, up to my head. A victory of sorts, and all it cost us was the element of surprise.

I haul myself onto my feet, poking my head over the front seats. Amara’s taken her bandanna off now, but we’re taking as many side roads as possible to avoid being spotted, putting enough distance between us and any bastards who want to follow us that we can safely pull over and switch out the license plates.

“Call Faultline,” I bark. We need to face the music.

“Sorry?” she looks up at me in confusion, and part of me recognizes the glazed look in her eyes.

“Call Faultline. I’d do it myself but my fingers are too fucking big, and the claws wouldn’t work on your touchscreens.”

“Right,” she stammers, flicking through her contacts till she reaches a number marked ‘current employer’. Once it’s ringing, I have her put it on speakerphone before reaching over and plucking her fingers.

“Wade? Make it quick. Any news?” Faultline’s voice comes through loud and clear, though she sounds a little strained.

“It’s Khanivore, boss. We got hit at the job site. Two capes, female, one bitch controls sandstorms, but the other never used her power.”

“Names?” her tone is terse, clipped, but not surprised.

“One moment,” I stretch my arm over the front seat, clacking my claws together in front of Amara.

“Those two capes. Need names.”

“Dust Devil and Hounddog,” she says after a moment.

“You catch that? Dust Devil and Hounddog.”

“Copy. Did you get anything from the motel?”

“Nothing…” Amara sighs. “Nothing in the room or the car.”

“Not quite, boss,” I interject, before Faultline can hang up, “found a poster for a truck Shamrock stole on her way out.”

I describe the vehicle, while Faultline notes the relevant details down at her end.

“How about you. Any injuries?”

“Spitfire’s scraped up, but not too bad. We’re all a little shocked, though. Could do with a stay in the pool.”

“That’s not an option right now. Newter and Gregor are pinned down in Kingman, and need reinforcements.”

Shit. I look around the van. Spitfire’s still curled up in the corner, but at least she’s looking at me now, while Amara’s barely able to focus on keeping us on the road. I’m in need of a spell in the tank after even that brief burst of activity, but the Crew’s in danger. I can see weariness and panic in Spitfire’s eyes, but there’s determination as well. There’s no choice, not really.

“What’s going on, boss? This is a lot of heat for just one woman.”

“The bounty’s gone up,” she sighs in exasperation, “it’s drawn in a corporate team from out of state, and now they know we’re here.”

“Shit,” I mutter, “what’s the odds, boss? Who do I have to crush?”

“Their hit on Kingston PD went down successfully, but then a couple of corporate capes showed up, investigating the same thing. Two capes; a blaster with a mover state, and a power-copying Trump who’s the real threat. Newter and Gregor will pull back, while you engage and neutralize the Trump. You will then all extract.”

“Bastard won’t know what hit him, boss.”

She rattles off their last known location, before hanging up. I look around the van, as Spitfire hauls herself up off the floor, concern in her eyes. In the driver’s seat, Amara’s gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles have almost gone white.

“Three years…” she mutters to herself. “Three years of staying clear of cape bullshit.”

I grip the back of the passenger seat in my hand, and move in closer to her.

“You’re not thinking of backing out, are you?”

“This isn’t my fight,” she snaps at me, “leave cape shit to the capes.”

I lean in close, snarling under my breath, until I’m level with her eyes. She’s clearly terrified of this whole situation, but that’s not going to save Newter.

“Listen. Once this is over you can put down your trilby and your bloody trench coat and retire to a farm in this arid fucking wasteland, if that’s what you want. But you took Faultline’s money, which means you don’t get to bottle out on us now.”

“I’m an investigator,” she shouts, “I don’t get into fights with capes! This isn’t what I thought the job would be!”

“It’s what it is!” I snarl back, baring my teeth, “you want to chicken out? Well tough fucking tits ‘cos if you think I’m going to leave my Crew in the lurch then you’ve got another thing coming! I’m not asking you to fight the bastards, just drive us there!”

She slams the palm of her hand against the wheel, before nodding wearily at me. Won’t be able to count on her in a fight, but that’s what I expected anyway. She’s only human.

“Spitfire, give her back her gun.”

Emily gladly hands back the pistol, looking like I’ve taken a weight off her shoulders. and Amara tucks it back into its holster even more reluctantly.

“Now that that’s all over” I set myself back down into the back of the van, “I think it’s high time you told us just who those bitches were.”

“They’re the Lone Star Rangers. A corporate team based out in Texas, have their own TV show where they go after capes with bounties. Nobody too dangerous, but every now and then something come up that brings them out of Texas. I’d say that’s what happened here.”

“Great,” I groan, “do a lot of people watch this show?”

“It’s really popular in the south,” she admits, “and reruns are often shown on other channels. They’ve been at it for around four years, though the team changes up every now and then.”

Something in her tone sounds a little more interested than she should be, and I groan in exasperation.

“Oh don’t tell me you’re a fan!”

“Sorry,” she murmurs, “it’s good TV, and close enough to my own job that I can enjoy it.”

“Well I hope you enjoy the Khanivore special. Now, who were those bitches?”

“Dust Devil and Hound Dog,” she sighs, “One controls sandstorms in a local area around her. More flash than hitting power.”

“Bollocks,” I interrupt, “she sheared right through the flagpole I used to bash her down.”

“Huh,” she seems genuinely confused, “I guess they edit that out before broadcasting.”

Makes no fucking sense to me. The whole appeal of Beastie Baiting was that it was no-holds barred fighting, as bloody as it gets. Something died every time two Beasties went into the ring. Might have been a brainless meat puppet, but it was still alive in the technical sense. Why the fuck would you ever tone down the violence if you wanted to get popular? Of course, there was almost a real death in the ring as well. Nineteen times almost… I wonder if they’d remember me, the crowd, when they found out I was there all along? Would I become a legend? The girl who gave her all to the ring? Or would they forget about me in a week, and move on to the next big thing?

“And the other one?” Spitfire chimes in.

“Hound Dog. She’s their tracker, has a power I wish for every day. If she wants to track someone down, all she has to do is touch something they’ve interreacted with for a prolonged period of time.”

“Like the seat of a car,” I muse, “or a motel room bed.”

“Exactly. Nobody knows what the limit on her power is, they’ve never clarified on the show, so it’s best to play safe.”

“Fuck,” I grunt, “if they can get her to something of Shamrock’s before we do, then it’s all over.”

“Everyone knows that she’s the reason the show’s so successful. They can take their time to make it more dramatic if they know exactly where the target is.”

“And the rest? The Blaster and the Trump?”

“Mirage has a complicated power, but all it basically boils down to is throwing shit at you. Reflection is a new member, a former Ward who tried to go independent once he graduated, but fucked up his solo career. He can use a weaker version of any parahuman power that gets near to him.”

Explains why Newter hasn’t tagged the bastard. He’s immune to his own chemicals, after all.

“There’s just the leader unaccounted for. Hold ‘em. He can hold a single person in place, so long as he isn’t moved while doing it.”

“Sounds like that would make for bad telly if they usually go after single targets…”

“It does,” Amara agrees, “so they normally have him swoop in at the last minute, like a safety net for the others.”

“Fucking sanitized corporate bullshit,” I snarl, “We’ll show them what a real fight looks like!”

Everyone quiets down as we pass in between a couple of hills, and Kingman becomes visible. It’s a sizeable town by local standards, though small by mine, sandwiched between a couple of highways that crisscross through the place. Amara’s phone starts to ring in my hand, and I stare at it in futility before Spitfire leans over and accepts the call.

“Khanivore?” Gregor’s voice comes through the phone.

“I’m here, Gregor. We’re just entering town now, where are you?”

“A residential district called Hilltop. Next to Route Sixty-Six. Turn off once you see the fire department. We are sheltering in a back garden on Boulder Avenue, but we may be forced to move,” his breathing is labored, like he’s been running or using his power. Then again, I know I don’t sound much better.

“Got it. We’ll get you out.”

“Wait,” he interjects, “local police have sealed off the area, but there is no sign of the PRT. Faultline believes that the Corporate capes have priority in this, but that the Protectorate may be travelling in from Phoenix.”

“Smash and grab, roger. I’m giving this phone back to the hired help, call Spitfire if you spot the capes. If it’s safe to move, head North.”

I hand off the phone to Emily, and turn my attention back to Amara as she fumbles with her bandanna.

“You catch that?” I ask, “Good. Tell me when we get close. Do not stop to let us out, instead double back and hide near the I-40. We’ll call you when it’s time to get the fuck out of here. Understand?”

She hesitates for a moment before nodding, and I pace over to the side door of the van, where Emily is waiting for me expectantly.

“Climb on,” I gesture to my back, “and hold on tight.”

A quick glance out the front of the van shows a couple of red fire trucks parked outside a squat building. I grin savagely, and slide open the door on the side of the van, watching the asphalt rush past beneath my feet. The van lurches to the left as it turns off the freeway, and I curl my claws around the edge of the door to keep me steady. I can barely feel Spitfire’s weight on my back, a numb sensation of pressure working its way through my exoskeleton. Apart from that, she might as well weigh nothing at all.

Amara abruptly swerves us right, and my view of the road pans around to reveal a row of two police cars blocking off access to the suburbs, and a few officers hurriedly scrambling for their guns. I leap out of the van, my claws and talons scrabbling against the surface of the road before finding purchase and propelling me forward. One of them gets a shot off, and I feel the dull impact against my skin. The bullet grazed along my waist, carving a shallow gouge through my too-dry skin but failing to go any deeper.

Another couple of bounding strides has me in and amongst the millicents, sending them diving out of the way as I leap up and over the cars, my talon smashing through the bonnet and slicing through the engine block. I feel a sensation of heat on my back as Spitfire sends a jet of liquid flame into the smashed machinery, then an even warmer burst as the petrol ignites. I raise myself up onto two legs and reach around to grab Spitfire in my arms, cradling her into my chest as the cops fire after us, bullets ricocheting off my armored exoskeleton.

I duck into the first street I see, putting cars and houses in between us and the bullets, but the police don’t follow. Guess it’s not their job to deal with ‘cape shit.’ I carry on running, ducking past a house and into a back yard that’s little more than a fenced off patch of desert, with a few pathetic scraps of grass gathered around a sprinkler in one corner. I set Emily down, and wait for her legs to stop trembling.

“Call Gregor. Link up with him, then contact me through the radio.”

“What about you?” she asks, before something catches her eye.

I turn on my heel to look at the house itself. There’s a woman in the window, middle aged and wearing a dressing gown. She’s got a landline in one hand, rapidly talking into it, while her other hand has a mobile phone that she’s using to film me. I look back at Spitfire.

“I’m going hunting,” I say, turning back briefly to flip the woman two fingers, before crossing into the next garden over by walking straight through her pristine white fence. Spitfire darts past me, her phone to her ear, and disappears off into the street, looking for Gregor and Newter. I should feel worried about her going off on her own, but she’s small enough to hide if she needs to and her power’s great for creating smokescreens, albeit ones that would burn down the whole neighborhood.

I creep through the gardens, past houses and cars. I’m not being obvious about it, but nor am I really trying to hide. I’m the distraction after all; I’m the one trying to draw these bastards off the scent. Every now and then I’ll spot a face at the window. Some are scared, but a lot of them are either staring at me without a care in the world or, in the case of some of the kids, are looking at me with naked anticipation in their eyes. It’s the kind of bullshit that is unique to this place; this is just a show to them, and I’m just another performer.

I’m a little lost in thought, so I don’t notice the pounding of feet on pavement until someone almost slams into me as I round a corner. He scarpers backwards, pressing himself up against a wall, but somehow manages to keep the camera he’s holding pointed at me, even as he backpedals. He’s dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, and has a vest over his branded t-shirt that has even more pockets on him. He’s standing stock still, like I’m some kind of lizard that can only see movement, and his breathing is shallow as he tries to stop his exertion from coming through on the mic. I bring myself right up to the camera, looking right at him even through the lens, and put a single finger to my lips before pacing off. He follows me, but I can’t hear him letting his mates know where I am.

The things these people do for good telly…

I crawl through the alleyways, slowly and methodically, and cross the streets in quick bursts of speed, preening a little for the camera. After the sixth street, I hear voices, and duck down to peer through somebody’s house, a window at either end giving me a clear view of the street. There are two capes there, walking down the street and searching through people’s gardens, followed by a small gaggle of cameramen and what looks like a director. The two capes must be Mirage and Reflection, and I think I can figure which is which.

Mirage is a dark-skinned girl with long flowing locks, dressed in a belly shirt and fraying jeans. She’s ripped like an athlete, and is carrying what looks like a spear in one hand. Her face is covered by a bandanna, but her long hair is flowing freely behind her. Reflection, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to follow the part line when it comes to trailer trash costumes. He’s wearing a red and white bodysuit that hugs his defined muscles, with a red domino mask over his eyes. His only concession to the theme is a ratty cowboy jacket in brown leather that he’s thrown over his shoulders like a cape.

I turn around, my intrepid follower only a couple of meters back from me, and wave him back a little more so that he can get a better shot of my tail splitting into four tendrils, before pressing into the ground to lift me up to the roof. I really fucking hope they don’t cut this out of the show just because I turned their two stars into a red smear on the pavement…

I crawl along the roof, slowly so that the beams beneath the tiles don’t groan too much under my weight. The camera crew, a dozen meters back, spots me, and one of them looks like she’s about to shout a warning to the capes before being hushed by the director. I reward their loyalty by pretending they don’t exist, instead crawling to the end of the roof with my eyes locked on the prey, only a few meters away from where the capes are searching. Six limbs press into the tiles, coiling and contracting.

I pounce.


	54. Hunter: 8.04

Tendrils expand and my legs heave and push as I launch myself into the air. I hear the cracking of tiles as my exit shatters the roof, scattering shards of ceramic orange all over the street, but that doesn’t matter now. All that matters is the feel of the air against my skin, the rush of blood as it pumps through my veins and the sight of my prey’s eyes widening in fear as twelve feet of sinew, muscle and bone falls out of the sky.

My tendrils fly out in front of me extending to throw even more momentum into the jump, and my claws reach out to slam into their chests and hurl them to the floor, the tendrils maybe arresting my momentum before crushing them too badly. I roar - I just can’t help it - a guttural sound that builds in my throat and reverberates along the empty street, empty save for the camera crew filming the whole thing.

I make contact, spikes of bone skidding along the ground before being replaced by barbed plates of bone and grey flesh, which dig into every crack on the ill-maintained road. The rest of me slams down like a ton of bricks, talons striking the ground and cracking some of the asphalt, while my open palms slam into the chests of the two capes. They scatter into wispy blue light as my strike passes through them, sending me rolling and scrambling to keep my balance. I settle on all fours, digging my tendrils into the road to arrest my movement, and raise my head to growl at the two capes, now standing six meters back from me.

As I watch, a ghostly image of the pair shoots out of their ‘real’ bodies, before settling on the roof and turning solid, with the bodies they left behind disappearing into that same blue light. I must have missed it in the desert sun. Stupid. Pushing my body to the limits. Can’t stop now, though. Not now I’m involved. Instead I rear up onto two legs and wait for them to react, all the while letting out a low growl from my throat. Mirage’s hand tightens around the haft of her spear, and Reflection looks visibly distraught.

“Hey assholes!” Reflection shouts to the camera crew, earning a reproachful look from Mirage, “thanks for the heads up!”

I start to chuckle, through my throat rather than Crania’s voicebox, and the low noise brings his attention right back to the real threat.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” I use my tendrils to lift myself up and onto a parked sedan, my right foot on the engine block while I dig into the roof with the talons on my left.

“This isn’t a street, shit for brains. This is the pit. And them?” my hand sweeps right, taking in the animated director, the stilled camera crew and every bitch and bastard who’ll ever watch this footage.

“They’re not here to help you, to save you,” I draw out the word, mockingly, “they’re here for the fight. For the blood. They’re here because this is the closest they’ll ever get to really living, and they don’t care who wins or loses. Even your most rabid fans, all those whores who rub themselves off to your picture on their wall, would rather see you die, right here and now, than walk away from this. You’re just part of the show to them.”

He screams at me, incoherent and raging, and snatches the spear from Mirage’s hand, almost sending her off the roof until a burst of her power has her back on the shaky surface, a ghostly image of her dissipating as it falls onto the concrete. He raises the spear and a ghostly arm hurls a translucent image of the spear at me. Rage has blinded him, and it shoots wide, spearing through the roof of the car. I respond in kind by clenching the talons on my right leg, ripping off the bonnet of the car before gathering it up in my arms and hurling it back at him.

It’s not meant to hit him, just send the both of them scrambling back with another teleport. Enough to put them off balance as I rush forwards, making a single bound across the asphalt before lifting myself up on my tendrils, and stepping gingerly onto the already sagging roof of the opposite house. It doesn’t hold, but that’s alright. The beams underneath do, and that’s all that matters to me.

Still, the sudden collapse of the entire rooftop drives my prey further away, zipping back again as they drift a little farther apart. That’s how I win. That Trump isn’t using Newter or Gregor’s power, which means he’s either limited by range, time spent in contact with the target, or a general time limit. Only two of those will help me, but that’s a risk worth taking. This fight is familiar to me, it’s how I fought before. This isn’t some dumb Brute I can tear down, or a crowd of shithead humans I have to tiptoe around like a bull in a fucking china shop. These bastards are complicated, with their own niches and tricks.

Exactly the sort of bastards I cut my teeth against the in the pit.

Rage can only get you so far, killer instinct can only get you so far. Fuck, even my famous fucking ‘edge’ can only get you so far. What really matters, when that adrenaline kicks in and you start acting off instinct, is that you’re good enough at spotting and categorizing threats that your brain does it on automatic. Let your fear find the path through knowledge that’s become second nature to you.

And I’ve had a lot of practice at fighting through my fear…

Mirage is alternating between staring daggers at her ‘partner’ and keeping her eyes on me as she screws together two halves of another javelin, one tipped with what looks like a truly wicket hypodermic needle fifteen centimeters long. I’d say there’s no chance it could get me, but powers are bullshit so I’m not going to take any chances. Two ghostly images, one male, one female, hurl their javelins at me, and I drive my talons into the support beam, collapsing it instantly and sending me falling into a tastefully-furnished living room, narrowly avoiding the ethereal weapons.

The wall of the house collapses into splinters as I barrel through it on my way to the street. I can see them lining up another shot, so I duck behind a parked car, grabbing onto the boot and lifting and pivoting it until I’m hiding behind a makeshift tower shield. I hear something impact into the vehicle, followed by a few more thuds, but nothing comes through. That confirms that their ghostly spears have a physical presence, and if they can get through part of this car then they might be able to do me an injury if they hit my skin. If they do get through, then that might be it. Nobody ever tried using tranquilizers in the pit – would sort of defeat the point of the whole thing – so we never bothered to put in a countermeasure for it.

“That’s someone’s house, you English bitch!”

Reflection is pissed, which does some very amusing things to his accent.

“What part of Villain don’t you get? You think I give a shit?”

We’re both stalling. They’re stalling so that they can flank around my shield, and I’m stalling so I can figure out a plan more complex than ‘stab them ‘till they stop wriggling.’ The camera crew are following at a distance, spreading out into the surrounding streets so they can follow wherever the fight ends up going. I could snatch up one of them, but that would probably get me yelled at by Faultline and I do not have the patience for that right now.

My own camera guy, the plucky fellow whose been following me since I got here, has taken cover in the wrecked house behind me, his camera trained on me as he gets a lovely shot of me using an entire car as a shield. That gives me an idea, and a savage grin spreads across my face as I move my head from side to side, making a mental note of each and every camera until I find one, held by a violet-haired woman, tracking her camera off to the right as she follows some unseen movement.

Bingo.

I turn my shield to the right, scraping it along the ground, before bringing it up to my shoulder and pushing, charging down the street with the force of a battering ram as ghostly javelins land all around me. I look behind me, picking out one camera tracking a wide shot of the whole scene, my old friend keeping his camera trained on me, and a last one fixed on the two capes. I wait as the camera angles get closer and closer, as each push and scrape off metal brings me nearer to the enemy. Then, when they’re right on top of each other, I push the top of the car, sending it rocking back onto its mangled chassis, and sprint over it, leaping off amongst crunching metal towards the two indistinct shapes, silhouetted against the sun.

They leap back again, but I’ve got them off balance. I’ve rattled them, and it shows. Mirage jumps back, like she’s done every time up till now, but Reflection panics and dives off to the left, his wispy form turning abruptly corporeal before sliding painfully along the pavement as his momentum carries through. He’s out of the fight, so I turn my attention back to his partner. Mirage tries to jump back over to him, even as she wears under her breath, but I position myself between him and her, again using the cameras as reference points.

You’d think her ghostly Mover power makes her intangible, but I have a car full of holes that would disagree. The way she keeps trying to edge around me without making it obvious she’s going for Reflection, that’s what makes it clear. She doesn’t know I can see where he is, or at least she hasn’t put it together yet. I certainly know I never really saw the crowd; they were just part of the background noise, something to get the blood pumping. It’s even worse for her; she’s probably been taught from day one to ignore the cameras, so she’s not likely to start paying attention to them now.

Instead, she stops on top of a streetlight, no doubt as part of an attempt to go over my head, before striking a pose with a wry grin on her face.

“I’m assuming that was you up in Chloride? Dust Devil’s really angry at you, by the way. I think you cracked a rib.”

I smile, or at least show my teeth, and bring my heels together for a curtsey. I know she’s stalling me, and there’s only one reason for that.

“Khanivore, in the flesh. As for the cracked rib, I’ve still got sand rubbing against some very uncomfortable places, so I’d say we’re even.”

She smiles, but her eyes dart upwards for the briefest of moments.

“I take it you’re here for the same reason we are?”

“’Course,” I leer, “a poor little Irishwoman, lost in this arid wasteland? How could we resist?”

“Yeah. We’re all bleeding hearts here. You out of state Bounty Hunters as well?”

“Not quite,” I draw myself up to my full height, “You’re dealing with New England’s finest Mercenary company. Faultline’s Crew prides ourselves on providing bespoke services to our clients, including jailbreaks, corporate/industrial espionage, close protection details and just about anything short of murder, all at very competitive prices.”

She starts laughing, still standing on top of the streetlight.

“What is this, a commercial?”

“Not all of us have the benefit of a TV crew following us around. I’m not going to turn down a chance to get our faces out there.”

That turns her mind back to the camera crews she’s been ignoring, and I can almost see the wheels spinning in her head as she puts two and two together. Her eyes widen in shock, and she reaches back to throw her javelin as another shade flickers into life, but it’s too late. I hear running footsteps behind me, and a fist slams into my side, accompanied by a heroic shout, with all the force of an angry terrier. I turn on my heel before Reflection has a chance to scramble away, but I needn’t have bothered. He’s standing stock still, clutching his wounded wrist, and its child’s play to wrap my claw around his chest, lifting him up with the tip of my thumb hovering dangerously near his throat.

I put him in-between me and Mirage, a human meat-shield that I can move into the path of any oncoming tranquilizers. The transmitter in my auditory organ shakes into life, and Spitfire’s voice emerges, silent for anyone except me.

“Khanivore. Gregor and Newter are with me, we’re ready to pull out. How about you?”

“Trump’s neutralized,” I respond silently, “Mover might be a bitch. Ask Newter to knock her out for me.”

“Got it.”

I turn my attention back to Mirage, who’s hesitating with a translucent arm poised to throw. I bring the bloke closer to my face, giving him a little shake as he groans in appreciation, or in pain.

“You know,” I begin, sarcasm dripping from every word, “if you throw hard enough it’d probably go right through him and hit me. I don’t know about you, but I’d consider that a price worth paying.”

Reflection coughs and sputters, forming a few words. I’m happy to let him talk; just like how Mirage stalled me, I’m now stalling her. It’s a strange way to fight, full of odd pauses, but who am I to disagree with the way the locals do business?

“She’s a projection!”

I laugh, breathing hot and foul-smelling air onto his face.

“Nothing so boring. Just consider it a very specific anti-Trump power. Right now, you’re just a poor little human, so I’d keep quiet if I were you. The grown-ups are talking.” I look up at Mirage, who seems to be getting ready to move, “Same goes for you. I’m not particularly interested in getting this prick’s blood all over my nice clean claws, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”

She scowls, but doesn’t move. Guess she doesn’t hate the bastard that much, or she values her job more. Wouldn’t look good to the cameras if the ‘Heroes’ started cutting loose. It’s another difference to what I’m used to, but I’m quite happy to exploit it for all it’s worth.

“Fine,” she practically growls, “so what happens now? We stay here in a Mexican standoff until the Protectorate gets here and steals the show?”

“I don’t think either of us wants that to happen,” I say, as I spot an orange shape darting amongst the buildings.

I keep Reflection facing me, and unlike Mirage I’m not so dumb as to follow Newter’s path with my eyes. Back in the pit, you could tell a lot about how a Baiter was going to attack by seeing where his eyes went, so we all got used to showing as little eye movement as possible. Saw a group go a step further, once, and cover their Beastie’s eyes with a translucent membrane. It was a neat gimmick, but it really screwed up his own vision. Meant I could exploit his blind spots, twist his leg the wrong way around and bring my tendrils down on those cloudy eyes until I’d caved in his skull and his body had stopped twitching.

“So how about I walk away from here, toss your mate in the nearest paddling pool to cool off, then we all go our separate ways?”

I see Newter leap up onto a roof, right behind her, but I don’t let it show on my face. Don’t grin, don’t mock and don’t gloat. Not until the victory is already in your hands, and the enemy is dead at your feet.

Newter pounces, hurling himself with tremendous speed towards Mirage only to freeze in midair, held perfectly in place as a stranger strides out of the ruined house, his approach filmed by three different cameras. He’s wearing a poncho and a wide-brimmed hat, with a black bandanna tied across his face, and small slits for his eyes. The whole thing looks like some kind of dashing rogue out of an old western.

“I don’t think that’s necessary. How about you return my teammate to me, and surrender yourself to our custody. Unless, that is, you plan to leave poor Newter behind?”

I snarl, tightening my grip a little on Reflection, as Hold-Em moves up to stand beside Mirage. His voice is smooth and Spanish, and every part of him seems to scream debonair.

“You’ve done your research,” I muse.

“Of course I have,” he grins, or leers, “we’re not amateurs. It’s pretty clear why you’re here.”

“Izzat a fact? You understand that I’m not about to blab about our evil backer.”

“Naturally,” he seems almost affronted, “we’re all professionals, after all.”

“Except I’m not, am I? I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors and accusations that follow me around like a bad penny? You must have heard about the dead Stranger in Ohio, her brains scattered across the floor of a strip club? Or how about all those poor people in Brockton Bay, trampled to death? You’ve done your research, haven’t you?”

I hold up Reflection, pressing my claw against his throat.

“Right now, we’re heading down a very dangerous path. See, all this cape stuff? It’s not what I’m used to. I don’t know how to pull my punches, don’t know how to stop things from getting out of hand. I’m working on it, but I’d be lying if I said I was trying particularly hard.”

“You kill him, and every Cape in the state will hunt you down,” he snarls, while Mirage readies another spear.

“I know that, but captivity’s no better. I’ve burned my bridges with the law already. ‘Course, I don’t have to kill him. We could all walk away. Sure, it might not make as good telly as a victory, but it’s better than a defeat. Or a death.”

His eyes dance between me and Newter, the kid still suspended perfectly still mid-leap. He’s weighing his options, trying to figure out the best way out of this. In the end, though, there’s only one route that lets him save face.

“Fine,” he sounds like he’s pulling teeth, “we’ll back off for now, but this isn’t over.”

Newter hurtles forwards as his momentum carries through, before landing on the balls of his feet. He darts over to the houses on my side of the street, and we back off as the Bounty Hunters do the same.

“Of course it isn’t,” I smile, “we’re just setting things up for a grudge match. Winner takes the girl.”

They duck behind the houses, and I toss my cargo roughly into the middle of the road, before sprinting off with Newter by my side. Part of me wants to turn around and play to the cameras, but I know that’s not how the game is played. Let a badarse parting shot be my gift to them. After all, they helped me a lot.

Me and Newter run through the streets. No capes drop out of the sky to stop us, no Dragonsuits drown me in containment foam and no PRT goons try and take a stab at us. On the other hand, we haven’t won either, at least not by my definition. We meet up with Gregor and Spitfire at the edge of the I-40, just in time for the PI to pull up in front of us in the van, the side door still open from when I left. It’s a bit of a squeeze in the back, but we manage alright. Gregor and Spitfire are fine, while Newter was apparently unable to hear or see anything while he was frozen.

“That what we came here for?” I ask Gregor, pointing at the portable hard drive slung to his belt?”

“This is what they think we came for,” he answers, cryptically, “data on crimes that could be linked to Shamrock. It is a red herring, while the real prize is the backdoor we put in the CCTV network. Wherever Shamrock is, we’ll find her.”

“And then what?” Spitfire asks.

“Then,” I smile, “we put the screws to her, and find out what she knows.”


	55. Hunter: 8.05

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it?
> 
> Good evening everyone, though it's perhaps a little late for that as it's 01:07 as I write this. I've been away for a bit. The reasons for this are fairly simple. Around when I was writing 8.04, I had a bit of a realisation about the next arc. That prompted me to cut that arc entirely, and modify the structure of my story a little. The change of pace is necessary, but I found myself unable to adapt to the new structure for 8.05. So I decided to write something else, to take my mind of things for a day or two and come back to this with a clear head. Clearly that didn't work out.
> 
> Once I'd started to write another fic, this one a one-shot following a Red Gauntlet cape in Bosnia, I realised that I needed to knuckle down and stop procrastinating. So I spent pretty much all of yesterday reading through my fic, getting back into the mindset of the characters. Before this all went down, I was able to eke out 800 words of this chapter. Tonight, I wrote 2,000. Hopefully that's a good sign for things to come, as I have neither the desire not the intention to leave this work unfinished. There's so much more I want to do with Ghost in the Flesh, I just need to get there.

It’s getting dark when we return to the motel; the sky lit up a majestic orange in the west, fading into darkness in the east. The roads here are flat, and surrounded by endless desert, so I can see more sky than I even have before. It’s nice, but my concerns are much more immediate. I pushed myself hard against those capes, and it’s catching up with me. I need to get back in my tank, and soon, if I want to be anywhere near combat effective by morning. There’s no telling how quickly we’ll need to move.

It’s strange; we’ve been here for close to a week now, but it seems like things are more intense now. We’re not going at this alone anymore, and I can’t get the sight of that poncho-wearing bastard out of my head. I might have screwed up there, but I got everyone out. That’s what matters. Gregor slides open the door of the van and strides over to Faultline’s Ops room, while Newter and Spitfire stagger out. They’re all back and they’re all safe, if a little worse for wear. Sure, we might have to fight those fucks again, but that’s just life. There’s always another bastard to kill.

Speaking of the bastards, I got caught out by a few too many tricks in that last fight. The surprise teleporter was bad enough, but I really need to figure out Hold-Em if I’m going to have any chance at gutting him whenever he decides to attack.

I bound up to Newter in four loping strides, before slowing to match his sedate walk. Him and Gregor had been hunted through half of that shitty little town by the time we got there, and I think he’s as eager to curl up and sleep as I am. Still, he’s lucid enough to answer questions.

“Newter. Need to wring your brains for a bit.”

“Sure,” he says, absently, “what’s up?”

“Hold-Em. He’ll be back, and I’d like to be ready for it. You’re the only one of us who got hit by his power.”

“It’s basically like being frozen in time. I was about to take out Mirage, when suddenly she’s standing on the other side of the street with another guy. Sure looked like you pissed him off, what’d you say to him?”

I distort the truth. They wouldn’t understand.

“Offered him a choice. He could keep you, or he could keep his cape. I’m sure the stick up his arse hurt when he made that choice, but there was only one way it was going to end.”

“Cool,” he says, before slinking off into the motel, heading straight for his room with its soft bed covered in plastic sheeting. Emily does the same, but I trudge into the War Room, sand still rubbing against my skin, and make a report to Faultline that covers almost all the important points. Then it’s a quick jump into the pool, sending half the water splashing across the courtyard, before staggering into the tank and falling asleep almost immediately.

The next couple of days pass me by, as I spend most of the time recuperating my neglected body in the tank. Everyone’s eyes are out there for Shamrock, but we’re being a lot quieter about it now we know there’s an active opposition. The Rangers are doing the same, according to the tails we have on them. Nobody wants any more small clashes; neither Faultline nor Hold-Em are willing to let this go to attrition, so they’re limiting themselves to human agents. Apparently, the TV stars have hired some cheap local actors so that they can keep up the façade of being a Cape bounty hunter team, even while they make use of hired human investigators to rival our own.

It’s not completely free from violence, of course, but we’re not liable to destroy any more towns. One of their guys ambushes one of ours with a collapsible baton, and one of ours hits one of theirs with her car, but, by and large, things stay low-key. That doesn’t mean we’re relaxing, though. I could cut the tension in the air with my claws, if I had a mind to, and Faultline is in her War Room all hours of the day now watching over some local slicers as they pour through the state’s CCTV network for any sign of the vehicle Shamrock’s using.

When something finally does happen, it catches me completely by surprise. I’m idly scrolling through the ‘net in my tank when Spitfire pokes her head in, her gas mask already on.

“We’re moving.”

She disappears without a word, and I slam a curled fist into the release valve, wasting precious seconds as the liquid drains out before sprinting into the hot Arizona sun. There’s a van waiting there, driven by Faultline, and another to follow us in case the first one gets wrecked. They’ve been waiting ready since we got back from Kington, but I did make sure to sweep the sand out.

Gregor slams the door shut the moment I’m in, and Faultline steers us out onto the open road. She’s going as fast as she possibly can through town, before opening up once we hit the open road. We’re dropping all attempts at subtlety, pushing the van’s engine to the limit. It’s not fast, not by my standards and not by theirs either, but we’re still making good progress, as weighed down as we are.

“We’ve found her, followed her through the cameras across five consecutive vehicle changes. She’s in the Hilton in Phoenix, in a suite she paid for with cash.”

She stops talking to swerve aggressively around a lorry, narrowly avoiding being hit by a car going down the other side of the road.

“We’re never going to get a better chance to approach her. The noose is tightening, and the Phoenix protectorate have been warned about her by Vegas, but most of them are busy outside the city. There’s a cult upstate that’s gone on the warpath, and every smuggling ring from here to Mexico is taking advantage of the distraction to launch their operations. The city’s almost empty!”

“So what’s the play?” I ask, rocking a little as the van swerves around another car.

“I’m going to phone her room once we’re within a few blocks of the hotel, then we’ll either meet her or chase her down, depending on how open she is to talking.”

“Fuckin’ a…” I murmur, tensing my claws in anticipation. Part of me is hoping she’ll run, but I bite down on that instinct. It might be good for me, but it’s not good for the group. Especially if she gets away, and even if she doesn’t, there’s no guarantee she’d break under torture. Probably not the best way to think about someone Gregor is adamant we should try and recruit, but at least I’m admitting it’s unhealthy? That’s a good start, right?

“What about the bounty hunters?” I ask, giving voice to my other main concern.

“We don’t know” – bugger – “but Shamrock has left enough vehicles behind that I’m not willing to leave it to chance, not with their Thinker.”

The journey down to Phoenix is long and slow, as my adrenaline waxes and wanes with each crash Faultline almost gets us into. Eventually, we slip into the city limits. Phoenix is a concrete oasis in the middle of the desert, with squat, flat-roofed, buildings abruptly transitioning into skyscrapers in the city center. Faultline slows her pace now that we’re back in civilization and switches off the radio, which had been dispassionately reporting on every fresh horror the religious nutjobs were throwing at the Protectorate, before pulling her phone up to her ear. I can only catch one side of her conversation, but what I hear is more than enough to get a clear picture.

“Shamrock, my name is Faultline. I run the only cape group in the State that isn’t trying to turn you in to the authorities.”

There’re hurried murmurs from the other side of the phone. I can’t tell what Shamrock is saying, but I don’t need to understand her words to pick up on the panic in her voice.

“Listen to me.” Faultline continues. “You’ve done alright on your own, but the walls are closing in on you. We’ve already fought a team of bounty hunters that are trying to track you down, and the Protectorate have all the information they need to find out where you are. You’ve been managing on your own, but you need safety in numbers to get out of this mess.”

Another tense burst of chatter from our mystery cape, while Faultline just waits patiently.

“Every Protectorate Cape in Phoenix is out of the city, and we’re the first organization to track you down. We won’t be the last. There will never be a better window to get you out of this mess.”

There’s a pregnant pause, before Shamrock speaks eight short words into the phone. Faultline doesn’t hesitate before responding.

“You can’t, but we’re the only option you have left.”

A long sigh, drawn out over seconds, and a few muted words are the only response.

“We’ll meet you in the underground car park beneath the hotel. You can come in costume or civilian clothes, whichever is more comfortable for you.”

Faultline waits for an acknowledgement before hanging up. She turns her attention back to the road, before sending a quick message through the radio to the driver of our backup van, instructing him to stay within three blocks of the hotel while we handle the meet. The hotel itself is nothing special, just one tall building amongst a whole city of them, with eight floors and some big bay windows on the ground floor that must have been designed by someone with no appreciation for the desert sun. The entrance to the underground car park is around the other side of the building, away from the glitz and glamour of the front, and it’s guarded by a bored man in a khaki shirt, sitting in a little booth.

As Faultline approaches, Newter slides the door open and leaps out, crossing the distance between us and the guard before the unfortunate bruiseboy has the chance to pull out his radio. He’s down for the count within moments, as Newter’s hand cups his cheek, and the malchick leans over his comatose target to hit the controls for the mechanical barrier.

It judders upwards with the clatter of steel on steel and Faultline pulls into the building as Newter starts to jog alongside us. The road drops down in a circle, before emerging into a long underground car park, supported by concrete pillars and half-full of various cars, all far pricier than our beat-up van. There’s a woman standing in the middle of the room, a black grip by her feet and a shotgun in her hands. She’s dressed in an absolutely bloody marvelous skintight black outfit that looks like it must be murder in this heat. There’s a green mask across the upper half of her face, but her rich red hair is flowing freely behind it.

Faultline pulls us to a stop about ten meters from her, and the five of us step out of the van, while Newter latches himself to a nearby pillar. Shamrock tenses a little at the sheer number of us, but I think Faultline’s plan is to overwhelm her a little. She’s not as desperate as Emily was, not yet, so we need to be a little bit menacing even as we reassure her. We need to make ourselves look like we can protect her, and that means we need to look strong.

My faith in Faultline’s judgement wavers slightly as Shamrock stagger back on her feet, before bringing her shotgun up to aim it right at us. She’s not aiming at anyone in particular, instead she’s keeping the barrel leveled square on the center of our group. In contrast to her rock-solid stance, her eyes are darting around us in obvious terror. They’re lingering mostly on me, Gregor and Newter.

“You can’t take me back…” she murmurs in despair, and I take a panicked half-step forward as she dexterously pulls the barrel of the gun away from us, before placing it squarely underneath her chin.

“Wait!”

Gregor’s shout cuts through the air like a knife, and I glance over at him to see his usually stoic expression broken into a grim rictus of panic and dismay. He’s leaning towards her, and his hands are stretched out to plead with her. Shamrock pauses, but the barrel of the gun stays pressed against her chin.

“Please! I do not know who you are really running from, but please do not do this!”

Shamrock’s hands are covered by black gloves, but I get the idea her knuckles would be white with the pressure of her grip. Faultline’s a little flummoxed, still standing there in shock, and Newter and Elle are well out of it, either too out of sorts or too shocked to do anything about it.

“Please…” Gregor pleads again. “I woke up three years ago, in an alleyway in Baltimore, with no memories at all and a strange language in my head. Newter and Sonnie were largely the same. But you remember, don’t you?” Her expression tightens. “You know who did this to me. Please, join us. Help us track these people down and make them give back what they took from us.”

Shamrock steps back, her hands still gripping the shotgun. She seems even more panicked now than before.

“You don’t understand. They’re too big. It’s hopeless.”

“Bullshit,” someone says. After an instant, I realize it was me. A little involuntary vocalization through Cranial’s tech, no doubt the result of stress. Still; in for a penny, in for a pound.

“I’m not going let you say that shit. Those cunts don’t get to uproot my whole fucking life, dump me into this shitty little world, and just get away with it. I’ve taken down bigger enemies before; all you need to do is figure out where to stick the blade.”

She shakes her head again, looking me in the eye as she speaks.

“You don’t understand. I’m… I’m not from this Earth, and neither are they.”

“We know,” Faultline interjects, regaining some of her lost confidence. Once again, she looks like the leader I first met in that shitty bar in Philadelphia, that Emily met in that abandoned warehouse back in Brockton Bay. Her confidence seems to have shaken Shamrock, but not enough to get her to lower the gun.

“Then how can you…”

“We know, and we’re going after them anyway. It doesn’t matter how large they are, or where they call home. There’s no organization that can’t be dismantled, no hidden fortress that can’t be found and torn down. All we need to do is find the right tools and the right allies.”

Faultline pauses for a moment, to let the weight of her words sink in, and I see Shamrock’s iron grip loosen slightly.

“You escaped. You’re the only one who has. That means you have two choices. You can pull that trigger, here and now,” – Shamrock flinches – “and let them keep their secrets, let them win, or you can come with us and help bring down the bastards who did this to you.”

Shamrock stands stock still, breathing so fast she’s almost hyperventilating. Gregor is still standing there with his arms outstretched, and I know it’s taking every ounce of willpower he has to let Faultline handle this. It’s taking every ounce of willpower I have not to try and leap across the ten meters between us, to try and smack the gun out of her hand before she can pull the trigger. It’s the same instinct that ended with a girl’s brains scattered across the floor of a strip club, the same instinct that turned Spitfire against me and led me to brag and boast to that bounty hunter even though I know it’ll come back to bite us. This time I push it down, fighting against every lesson the Pit ever taught me, and let Faultline handle this.

“Only you can make this choice.”

Shamrock pauses for a few moments more, before dropping the gun as she falls to her knees, openly weeping onto the unpainted concrete. Gregor’s by her side in an instant, his hand resting comfortingly on her shoulder, and she curls up into his soft mass, as tears roll down her face.

I hear a low noise, right beside me, as Faultline lets out a long breath. Her shoulders loosen, and her posture slumps from exertion. I reach over and clasp my own hand around her shoulder. She looks up at me and I know she’s smiling even if I can’t see her face.


	56. Hunter: 8.06

The tension drains from the air as Shamrock slowly gathers her wits, aided by Gregor’s comforting hand on her shoulder. She leans against his rotund body as she hauls herself to her feet, a little unsteady but growing in confidence. She shifts from the image of a scared girl, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, to that hardened stance she had when she first came in here. One I’ve seen before on mercenaries or soldiers or the particularly sociopathic variety of razorgirl.

There’s something off about the way she moves; even something as simple as shrugging off Gregor’s arm seems to be unnatural; almost too graceful or efficient. It’s strange, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s an aspect of her power, though what sort of power gives you good posture and the ability to cheat at cards? She leans over to pick up the shotgun, holding the weapon so naturally that it might as well be an extension of herself. She takes a step towards Faultline, holding out her right hand, only to freeze as the boss’ radio crackles into life.

“The PRT are surrounding the building, ma’am.” The voice of Faultline’s driver, still circling the block in his van, pours the tension back on, and Shamrock’s eyes start to dart furtively around the room again. “No sign of any protectorate capes yet, but the Rangers are here.”

Faultline’s silent for a few moments as she looks around the room, her eyes lingering for barely a second on our newest recruit before she speaks.

“What’s that shotgun loaded with?”

“Buckshot,” Shamrock looks a little confused, “what else?”

I’d chuckle if this wasn’t so serious. Clearly we’ve found another girl after my own heart.

“Do you have any non-lethal weapons?” Faultline asks, in a tone I’m intimately familiar with.

“They’re coming for me,” she retorts, “I need to fight back!”

“Listen, luv.” I step forwards, trying to stop her from shutting us out. “I know it doesn’t make a lick of sense, but that’s just the way things are done here. So long as we put on the kid gloves, they’ll do the same. It’s the police that’re coming for us, not the bastards who put you here. It’s all a load of bollocks, sure, but it’s bollocks that’s enforced by a lot of powerful groups.”

“Not quite how I’d have put it,” Faultline looks up at me like she’s trying hard to be reproachful, “but that’s beside the point. Do you have anything non-lethal you can use? Otherwise I’ll need to ask you to stay back. Quickly now; we don’t have a lot of time.”

Shamrock nods, springing into action like a trained soldier as she unzips her black grip, replacing the shotgun with an extendable baton that she quickly flicks open. She’s still wearing a pistol on her thigh, and there’s a knife strapped to the side of her boot, but that’s nothing unusual; Faultline herself is packing heat.

With that done, Faultline moves off to the lift, followed by the others. Shamrock leans over to pick up her bag, but I get there before she can and sling it over my shoulder.

“It’ll slow me down a lot less than you.”

There’s no way I’ll fit in the lift, but that doesn’t seem to be Faultline’s plan. I can hear the screeching of tires on the ramp, as the millicents move into the garage, and look to Faultline for direction as she thumbs the button in the lift.

“Take the stairs. Destroy them on your way up.”

I grin savagely as the metal doors close on the rest of the crew. The first grey truck emerges into the underground car park, and I flip it off as I barrel into the stairs. I climb the first flight on all fours, before driving my tendrils into the wall to support my weight while I kick down with my feet at every cluster of steps. They weren’t built to withstand this sort of concentrated force, and soon there’s a pile of broken concrete and patterned plastic coverings gathering at the bottom of the stairwell. Another couple of destroyed flights brings me up to the ground floor, and I burst through the door, and much of the wall, to see the Crew waiting for me just outside the elevator.

Faultline waves me over, before gesturing towards the heavy metal doors. I drive my spikes into the gap between them, distorting and widening the metal enough for me to get a grip on them with my claws, hauling apart the steel to reveal the empty elevator shaft, the lift itself disappearing above my head. Seems like Faultline sent it on a little ride, to buy us time for this. I step back, and Faultline scoots around me to lean out into the shaft. She can’t quite reach the other side, so I wrap a hand around her arm and help her lean out and over, until her fingers brush against the moving cable attached to the counterweight.

She shears through it in an instant, and I hurriedly pull her back as a tremendous screeching sound fills the shaft. To my surprise, the lift doesn’t hurtle past me. I look up, only to see it suspended in the shaft by a series of angular brakes set underneath the box, digging into the sides of the shaft. Shamrock pokes her head around my body and draws her pistol.

“Want me to deal with that for you?” she asks, a hint of humor in her tone. She seems calmer now that danger is imminent, like she’s falling back on some past training. Just who are you, Shamrock?

Faultline nods, and the lithe Irishwoman leans into the elevator shaft, gripping onto one of my tendrils as she points her pistol upwards, barely aiming as she fires off four consecutive shots. Each shot hits with the sound of screeching metal, and the brakes creak and groan, before sheering off the wall in a hail of sparks as the lift drops like a stone. I pull back, as Shamrock does the same, and let the doors close as the mass of metal hurtles past me, crashing into the base of the lift shaft with a tremendous shriek, sending a cloud of dust up through the slowly-closing lift doors.

They can’t surround us now, but we can’t use that route to escape. We have to fight our way out. The first floor of the hotel isn’t the best battlefield, but there have been worse out there. At least there’s plenty of room to fight in. We see a couple of hotel staff, and the occasional guest, but they’re all either in the process of evacuating, or hurriedly decide to do so when they catch sight of us. Seems like we won’t have to worry about any whiny civilians getting in the way of our scrap.

“Standard procedure for working with corporate capes is to hold them in reserve as much as possible,” Faultline begins, running us through the millicent’s protocols. “They don’t want to admit it, but the Protectorate sees themselves as the only legitimate Parahuman organization, so they’ll take the steps they can to suppress their rivals.”

She slashes open the lock of a security room, staring dismissively at the overweight security guard manning the CCTV before stepping aside to let the poor man slip out. I put a tendril in his path and snicker to myself as he trips, before scrambling back to his feet with surprising agility for someone his size.

Faultline stares up at the bank of monitors for a few moments, watching teams of PRT officers in armor that must be absolutely miserable in this heat as they sprint into the building, securing the lobby with hurried shouts and not-so-gently guiding the poor helpless bystanders out the front door. They’re followed almost immediately after by a small number of cameramen, pushed and shoved by the impatient bruiseboys, and the entirety of the Lone Star Rangers, fanning out around their leader in what must make for a very impressive shot.

Faultline takes another look at the screen, assessing every scrap of information she can find, before leading us out of the security room, sending off Gregor, Newter and Spitfire while the rest of us follow her in a broad pincer movement. It doesn’t slip my notice that she’s kept me, Shamrock and Labyrinth with her. The three people most likely to cock it up, or the people in need of the most supervision.

The hotel is clear now, with only a couple of slow bastards hiding under tables, and my claws tear up the neatly-patterned carpeting with every step. Faultline turns off through a large set of double-doors, into some sort of restaurant still filled with abandoned meals. She takes one look around the place, as I scoop up a nostalgic piece of lobster, before pointing towards one of the walls.

“They’re behind there.”

I grin, and wipe the lobster juice off my mouth before pacing up to the wall. Shamrock follows close behind me, her baton gripped in her right hand while the other keeps aimlessly drifting towards her pistol. I rest a hand against the wall, and gently nudge the Irishwoman back.

“Watch out for the ones with tanks on their back,” I tell her. “They’re armed with an adhesive foam. If it sticks you to the floor, then that’s it. Do not let them hit you.”

“Understood,” she says in a toneless voice, every inch the mindless soldier. Was she always like this, or is it what they made her? Certainly, I know it’s a false front, but who was the first to put it up?

No time to think of that now. Instead I take a few steps back, drop to all fours, and bound towards the wall. It crashes apart in a hail of plaster, and I feel differing jolts of resistance as I bowl aside unseen figures. The moment the dust has cleared enough for me to look up, I see Shamrock rolling past me, driving the back of her baton into a bruiseboy’s knees before dropping him with an elbow to the neck. I push on, pressing a PRT agent against the wall of the corridor before he has a chance to fire his sprayer, before hurling him into his comrades. Faultline moves up behind me, severing an armored mask clean off a woman’s face before driving the tip of a baton into her nose.

I spin on my heels, driving my tendrils into the confined walls of the corridor to wheel myself around to face the rest of the squad. Shamrock is ahead of me, somehow avoiding the rubber bullets that bounce uselessly off my hide. Faultline is not so lucky, and shelters behind me as I advance. Labyrinth is holding back; the fight happened too fast and is too mobile for her to be of much use.

Shamrock sprints ahead of us all, narrowly avoiding a stream of yellow-white foam before slamming the first officer into the wall, ripping the shotgun from his hands before slamming the butt of the weapon into his neck. The trooper staggers, and Shamrock uses his confusion to haul him in the path of a trio of rubber bullets, as the foam-sprayer levels his weapon at her. She catches the spray on her hostage’s back, before slipping his pistol from its holster and firing a shot into the group. The round severs the tube connecting the sprayer to the tank, and the makeshift hose starts to flail uncontrollably, filling the corridor with a stream of foam.

The officer panics, and Shamrock fires again once he’s side on, rupturing through the entire tank and creating an explosion of compressed foam that fills the corridor, enveloping the squad even as it cuts us off from the rest of the hotel. Faultline takes one look at the yellow-white mass before placing her hand against the wall and cutting us a way through into the next room; a staff breakroom with a still-steaming pot of coffee in the corner, and an unopened microwave meal on the counter.

I duck through the hole Faultline made, crouching down a little more than usual to account for Shamrock’s bag over my shoulder, and wait as she decides where to go next. There’s a second reason we’re all together. The other group, with the exception of Gregor, are glass cannons. I’m the heaviest hitter we’ve got, the one most suited to taking a beating, so she put me in the group with the target. With Hounddog’s Thinker power, the Rangers already know where we are, where Shamrock is, so we need to be ready for them. The others are our ambush hunters, there to stick the bastards from behind while we wear them out.

It means that when we step through the break room and into the kitchens, then out a side door into the club’s bar, I know we’ve found the spot where we’ll make a stand. We need to be the rock, holding these fuckers back long enough for the others to get in position, to be the knife we use to cripple them. I start running through the Rangers in my mind, assessing the threat they pose based on what I’ve seen of them so far. Reflection was a pushover the last time I saw him, but with all these capes around he’s a hell of a lot more dangerous. As for Hold-Em, he could make or break the fight.

The bar is built into the hotel itself, and has little in the way of windows. Faultline leads Elle behind the bar, sitting the poor girl behind cover and whispering instructions into her ear. Within moments, the modernist décor starts to be subsumed beneath marble floors and polished wooden furniture, which then rises and falls like an impossible painting, twisting and shifting into strange shapes. Faultline calls me and Shamrock over to the bar and I take the chance to set Shamrock’s bag down next to Labyrinth. Either we’ll beat these bastards back, and I’ll be able to grab it, or we’ll lose, and it won’t matter.

Faultline guides Shamrock’s hand onto Elle’s shoulder, and gestures for me to do the same. All the while, her power is spreading throughout the room as the marble floor grows in height until we’re walled in behind huge slabs, and fresh growths start to spring from the wooden furniture until twisting roots cover the floor and start to creep up the walls. It’s not the fastest I’ve seen her power spread, but it does make coordination easier. Faultline places her own hand on Elle, and says two words to her.

“Anchor us.”

Elle does… something. I’m not quite sure what, but the marble blocks turn translucent, and I can see the original furniture overlaid on Labyrinth’s creations. I stretch my arm out to what had been a decorative statue, now sprouting jagged spikes of marble, and my hand just passes straight through it. It must be some aspect of her power that I’ve never seen before; I’ve always used Elle to help me along, but here we’re creating as hostile an environment as possible, and it’s nice to know that we’ll be unaffected.

Shamrock takes a few moments to adjust, but seems otherwise unphased. Whatever training she’s gone through has made her pretty fucking Zen about this sort of thing.

A blue afterimage, visible through the thick layers of marble, flicks briefly into the room, reforming for an instant as Mirage before disappearing back out. They’ve found us. The next thing to enter the room is a cloud of sand, dense as gravel and whirring with the speed of a belt-sander as it slowly carves its way through the marble. The stone seems a lot weaker than it should be; probably an effect of not really exiting, or existing in two dimensions at once, or however the fuck Elle breaks the laws of physics.

The Texan capes must be somewhere in the cloud of sand, waiting patiently for Dust Devil to carve her way through. Faultline turns to Shamrock, who’s staring expressionlessly at the slowly advancing wall of sand.

“Dust Devil is in there somewhere,” I begin, “we got any grenades or something we can use to flush her out?”

“No,” Faultline begins, before Shamrock steps forwards, levelling her pilfered shotgun at the cloud.

“This thing fires rubber bullets. I can get her.”

Shamrock lets the barrel drift for a moment, before her hand closes around the trigger. Before she can fire, however, Faultline gently pushes down her barrel.

“Rubber bullets are designed to be ricocheted off the ground. Otherwise the velocity is too high and you risk killing her.”

Pretty sure those PRT guys were firing straight at me, not that I can blame them.

“Hang about, boss.” I interrupt. “You can’t be asking her to make that shot with a ricochet! There’s no chance! She’d be better off firing straight and hoping she doesn’t kill the bitch.”

Shamrock gives me a strange look, almost challenging, before angling her barrel down. She pauses for a few moments, her aim unconsciously drifting from side to side, before squeezing the trigger. The bullet comes out too fast for me to track, but it passes effortlessly through Labyrinth’s marble before ricocheting off the floor and impacting with some unseen target. There’s a moment of silence, before the sand drops to the floor, revealing four capes standing, and one lying unconscious on the floor.

Hold-Em scowls beneath his mask, before gesturing to Hounddog. The biker chick drags away her fallen friend, her torso still bandaged up from where I cracked her ribs. She’ll need another one around her head, which might affect how photogenic she is. As she’s dragged back out of the line of fire, Shamrock aims another shot at Hounddog, knocking her out of the fight with a vicious shot, before the sand suddenly rises up again as Reflection uses Dust Devil’s power to pick up the slack.

Shamrock’s about to fire again when a blue spectre suddenly shoots through the marble, Mirage appearing just long enough to yank the shotgun from her arms before disappearing back through the marble. Her grip isn’t perfect, and the shotgun slips out of her hands before falling to the floor, but it’s too late for us to do anything about it, as it’s swiftly consumed by the maelstrom of sand. We’re powerless, unless Faultline tells Shamrock to go lethal. Not that that’s ever going to happen. Shit. I need to fucking think about this. Nobody else can even get close to Reflection. Anybody here except for me, and maybe Faultline, would only add to his power. I can’t wait for him to work his way through the marble either, or he’ll just gather up everyone’s powers anyway.

Shit. What if he gets close enough to draw from Elle? From Labyrinth?

I need to think. I need to find some way to solve this, some way to get at them without letting him touch the others. That’s when it hits me. I’ve been thinking about this like a pit fight, like something in an enclosed arena, but even in the pit I made use of verticality. This is no different. I look up at the ceiling, considering the ornate vaulted marble ceiling that Elle’s made. I can’t punch through that, but I don’t need to. It’s not really there.

I see past the ceiling, to the featureless white tiles and overhead lights, and tear it down in a hail of plaster. Faultline looks at me for a moment before offering a single nod, a wordless gesture of permission as she radios the others to launch the ambush. I grin back at her, and use my tendrils to lift myself up through the hole. Elle’s stone fills this floor as well, it’s probably as circular as her radius, but I can just ignore it like it’s not there. I pace forwards, until I’m roughly above where I think Reflection was standing. I take a deep breath, and drive my tendrils through the floor.

The ceiling collapses, spilling out in a cascade of plaster that mingles with the sand. I feel something fleshy beneath me and press down with my arms, pinning it down beneath me while I search for its throat. The sand whirls and scratches me, but I ignore it. I lean in close to what I think is Reflection’s face, and place a familiar clawed thumb against his throat.

“Drop the sand, or learn to breathe through your throat.”

My words are harsh and distorted, the sand slowly chewing through Cranial’s voice box even as it scrapes against my flesh. It begins to recede, and I know what’s coming next. Hold-Em will freeze me the moment he sees me, but Reflection won’t be able to move and he won’t be able to use his sand. If he does, it’ll block Hold-Em’s line of sight and he’ll still have a very pissed off Beastie on top of his chest, only this one will be moving. It’s a sacrifice play, but one that removes their heaviest hitter from the field. It even manages to avoid being too violent.

As expected, the moment the sand drops I feel something strange as Hold-Em freezes me.

In an instant the air is clear, and there’s a squirming cape under me. If Newter hadn’t told me about Hold-Em’s power then I’d have been right confused, but forewarned is forearmed, and I’ve got plenty of those. I’m on my feet in an instant, my thumb resting against the Cape’s throat as I take stock of the threats.

“Khanivore! Stand down!”

The voice is Faultline’s! My vision clears, and I see everyone, both the Rangers and the Crew, looking at me. They’re not even fighting. My eyes dart from side to side, trying to find something that explains what the fuck is going on.

“Khanivore.” Faultline again, her tone clipped. “Put him down.”

I drop Reflection, more out of habit than anything else, and give Faultline an incredulous look as he coughs and sputters.

“The fuck is this, boss?”

She points over at a telly mounted above the bar, displaying a simplistic emergency message.

‘Emergency Warning: Endbringer Attack’

“The truce is now in effect,” she says, like that fucking explains anything.

“Boss… I don’t understand.” I hate how pathetic my voice sounds, especially though the damaged voice box, but this whole situation seems so utterly wrong. It’s like the whole world has been turned on its head.

“We talked about this, Khanivore. When an Endbringer attacks, everyone stops fighting. It’s the most important rule.”

Shit. I vaguely remember her mentioning something about this, but I never paid it much mind. I think back to the new skyline of New York, and panic starts to set in.

“It’s not attacking here, is it?”

“No, it’s not.” She shakes her head. “They haven’t said where yet.”

I hear voices behind me, and I whirl in panic to keep the Rangers in sight. Reflection is murmuring into Hold-Em’s ear, though not quiet enough to stop us from hearing him.

“We can take them! I have all their powers now. Nobody ever needs to know; we’ll just say the fight ended before the truce.”

“Did you ever hear of what happened in Salt Lake City,” Faultline asks from across the room, “back in two thousand and five?”

She steps forwards, and I get poised for a fight. If these fucks so much as thing of breaking this ‘truce’, then I’ll kill them.

“A corporate hero team decided to attack a known murderer who used the truce to buy a coffee in costume. He was captured, but the PRT released him before giving a formal caution to the Cape team. One week later, Bastard Son descended on the city with the Elite. They killed every member of the corporate team, every PRT employee, and decimated their Protectorate. The bodies were hung from lamp posts across the city, those that still had heads to hang by. The truce doesn’t just apply to villains.”

Hold-Em pushes his subordinate back, stepping forwards with a swish of his poncho.

“I assure you that I respect the truce, as does everyone here. I am sure you understand that sometimes these people can get… overzealous. You have your own uncontrollable member, after all. One who may well be the cause of your downfall.”

I tense up, just a little. I know full well who he’s talking about.

“I am aware of the difficulties my subordinate has been having, and the words she said to you.”

Oh fuck.

“I’m working to undo the habit of a lifetime.” I can’t see anything beneath Faultline’s mask, and I’m too freaked out to try and guess her emotion through body language. “It’s slow, but progress is being made.”

“I understand,” Hold-Em agrees, “we all have our issues.”

I start to panic. Faultline knows, but how long has she known for? I’m afraid, afraid that I’m not changing fast enough for her, afraid that she’ll lose faith in me, that the others will lose faith in me. I’m afraid that I’ll lose everything I have in the world, for the third time over. Most of all, I’m afraid that Hold-Em is right and that I’ll be the one who brings the Crew crashing down around me.

“Faultline.”

Gregor’s voice cuts through the air like a knife, cramming almost as emotion into a single word as when he had pleaded with Shamrock. I turn to look at him, only to catch sight of the message on the screen. Two more words have been added to the emergency warning, two words that cut through me like a knife.

‘Emergency Warning: Endbringer Attack: Brockton Bay.’

I just stand there, looking at the words on the screen. I’m distantly aware of everyone else in the Crew doing the same, struck dumb by the enormity of the words, but I can’t focus on anything other than the TV screen as it switches to a map of the Bay; all the familiar neighborhoods now overlaid with markers indicating shelters in the center of the city, and evacuation routes on the outskirts. Only Shamrock is unaffected, and she brings us back to the here and now with a simple question.

“What are we going to do?”

Faultline looks at her in confusion for a moment, all her usual confidence and flair having fled, before she seems to harden herself.

“We’re leaving.”

The Rangers stand aside as we make our way out onto the street with Spitfire carrying her bag over her shoulder. I think Hold-Em knows why we’re acting like this; certainly, his eyes are soft and sympathetic. He calls back to us as we reach our van.

“Faultline!”

The boss turns to look back at the five bounty hunters who’ve been out rivals for the best part of the week. We’ve hunted each other throughout the desert and come close to killing each other at times.

“Good luck!”

Faultline just nods to him, as we clamber up into the van.


	57. Interlude: Mel

The message arrives in the evening, just as I’m almost done helping mom clean up the dishes after dinner. I idly look down at my phone, expecting to see yet another message from one of my friends talking about the soldiers on the streets, or the bombs going off. It’s like their whole world has been turned upside down, like this is somehow more real than the day-to-day life in this city, the city they’ve never seen. But I’ve seen it. She showed it to me; the real Brockton Bay. Past the suburbs and the downtown spires, past the public face of the Empire to the real brutality lurking beneath the surface. It took a bombing campaign to get them to realize what I’ve known for a year now; that this city isn’t safe.

But the message isn’t from Sarah, or Mandy, or Samantha or anyone else I know from school. It’s from a number I have down in my phone as Nora, to prevent unfortunate questions. It’s from someone I’ve almost given up hope of ever hearing from again, someone I’ve been desperately trying to believe hasn’t been killed by the army, or captured and thrown into a cell. It’s only three words, but that’s three more than I’ve heard from her since before this whole disaster began.

‘I need help.’

I’m barely able to stop myself from dropping the plate I was loading into the dishwasher, instead forcing myself to put my phone away and help with the last of the clean-up, making my excuses to mom before darting upstairs to my room. I fumble awkwardly with the touchscreen, my fingers shaking as I scroll down my contacts list and hit call. For a few horrible moments I think she isn’t going to answer, that I’ve just done something stupid and that the sound of her ringtone will have got her killed, but then her voice comes through the phone.

“Mel. Is that you?”

She sounds pained, more tired than I’ve ever heard her before. It’s like all the life, all her fire, has been taken out of her voice. She sounds weary.

“It’s me, Nova.” I can’t contain myself any longer; tears start to flow down my face, and I practically weep into the phone.

“Why haven’t you called?” Only the thought of mom downstairs, and dad in the study, stops me from shouting. “I thought you were dead.”

I hear her wince, a sharp intake of breath.

“I know. I’m sorry, and I’ll never be able to get across in words just how sorry I am. I was in deep, Mel, and I couldn’t see a way out. I didn’t want to drag you down with me, so I cut ties.”

I feel a flush of anger.

“So, what? You just figured you’d kick me out of your life without saying anything? Without even telling me why?”

I hear a sigh turn into a stifled sob, and her voice comes through the phone again.

“I know. I told myself I was protecting you, but… but I didn’t want you to know what I was doing. I… I’ve done terrible things, Mel.”

There’s something in her voice. She’s not just missing her usual confidence; it sounds like every word is a struggle, in more ways than one.

“You’re hurt.”

Silence. A pause that seems to stretch forever, as I listen to her labored breathing.

“…yeah.”

Some part of me feels angry at her. Angry that she didn’t lead with this, and angry that she called me in the first place.

“Is that why you called me? You tried to go your own way, but now you have a use for me again? Is that all I am to you?”

“No!” Her response is sharp and instant, but it’s immediately followed by a sharp wince and a few heaving breaths. Hearing her, my anger softens a little. I wait for her to catch her breath, and to give her a chance to explain.

“There’s no one else. You’re the only person in the whole world I can still ask for help, the only person who might even listen. I understand if you want to leave me, it might even be the right thing to do. I just wanted to try, even if all I managed to do was hear your voice one last time.”

I don’t really know what to say about that. On the one hand, she’s basically admitting that I was her last resort, but on the other hand that means that she really has nowhere else to go, and I can’t just leave her like this.

“God.” I try to force some cheer into my voice. “You are such a bitch.”

She laughs, a pained sound that ends in a sort of croaking wheeze.

“I know. Do you still love me for it?”

Goddammit.

“Yeah… Where are you?”

“The abandoned record shop on the corner of Seventh and Orange. Can you… can you bring a first aid kit?”

“I’ll be there. Just hold on.”

I quickly throw on my jacket, going to the utility room to take the first aid kit from the cupboard. Hopefully mom won’t notice it’s gone. She bought it a year or so ago, having suddenly realized we might need one, but I don’t think she’s thought of it since. We’ve certainly never had the chance to use it. I slip it into my backpack, buried beneath a few loose textbooks and made my excuses to mom.

“I don’t believe for one second that you’re going out to ‘study’ in the middle of a war.”

Well that didn’t go great.

“It’s not a war, mom. The news said it’s just extreme gang violence.”

From the way she stares down her nose at me, that doesn’t seem to have worked.

“I know that’s what the news says. They’ve got a responsibility to keep people calm, after all, but that doesn’t make it true. The army’s out there, Melissa. I remember watching Vietnam on the news as I was growing up, and I never thought I’d see Vietnam on American soil. Why are you really going out?”

I sigh, looking down at her feet while I build up the courage needed for another lie.

“I haven’t seen my friends since this started, and we’re all getting a little crazy. I was going to go hang out with them and talk about boys, or something.”

Somehow, that seems to work. Mom says something sympathetic about how much she remembers her old friends from school, even if she hasn’t seen them in years, and she lets me go with little more than a warning to be back by nine, and to ‘not do anything I wouldn’t do,’ which doesn’t leave me with a whole lot of options.

Good thing that I’d already lied to her; there’s only so much guilt that it’s possible to feel.

I send a quick text off to Tracy; she owes me for setting her up with that guy she likes, so she’ll cover for me without asking questions. The buses aren’t running, so I quickly open up the garage and pull out my bike. I haven’t ridden it for months, but they say you never quite forget. It becomes easier over time, but I’m certainly glad there’s no traffic on the roads.

As I get closer to the center of the city, things start to become a little less adventurous. Every now and then I’ll pass a green colored army vehicle, with soldiers standing around doing whatever soldiers do when they aren’t fighting. Some of them turn to look at me, but I just cycle on. I know that some of the city has been closed off entirely, but I think Nova’s in one of the areas that’s supposed to be under control.

Sure enough, I manage to make it to the old record shop without being arrested, or shot, or blown up. I stash the bike behind a dumpster, and hesitate as I look over the abandoned building, the windows boarded up and the doorway shuttered. I look closer at the shutters, and see the remains of the padlock that used to hold it shut. It takes a bit of effort to lift up the metal shutters, and there’s a terrible squeak of rusty metal, but I manage to hold it up long enough to push the door open, and step into the abandoned store.

I’m met by the barrel of a gun, which wobbles unsteadily a little before dropping to reveal Nova, propped up against a set of empty shelves with one hand on a rifle and the other pressing what looks like her bundled-up tank top to her side. She smiles as she sees me, and sets the rifle aside, but it’s a strained thing; she’s obviously in considerable pain. I rush to her side, and start to pull out the first aid kit.

“Hey,” she murmurs at me, “it’s good to see you again.”

I look up at her as I fish out the bandages, not really knowing what she needs. After a few moments of fumbling as I desperately try to figure out the kit, she takes my hand in her own and presses it into her balled-up tank top, while she expertly pulls out a few dressings and antiseptic wipes from the bag. I keep up pressure on her side, flinching a little when I realize the black garment is almost completely soaked through with blood, then pull my hand away as Nova rubs the weeping wound down with an antiseptic wipe, before helping her tie the bandage around. With that done, she zips up her jacket to give herself a little modesty, and leans back against the shelves.

I sit down beside her, and we wait there in silence for a while. I find my eyes drawn to the gun still resting by her side. It’s almost the same as the ones the army had, but with a strange bulky bit underneath the barrel, a few hazard symbols and a second trigger. A horrible thought grips me; Nova must have gotten this gun from someone. Has she used it?

I look up from the weapon, taking in her changed features. She’s tired where she was confident, and there’s a sense of age in her eyes that wasn’t there when I last saw her. I wonder if this is the same girl I fell in love with, before stamping that thought down. Even if she’s not, even if she’s changed so much that I can’t recognize her anymore, then she’s still someone who needs my help. I’m all she has left.

“What happened to you?”

I almost don’t want to ask, but I need to know. I need… closure. From the way she meets my eyes, it seems like she does too.

“I went too deep. I saw a chance to be someone and I took it. I’ve been paying for it since.”

She grabs my wrist, gently, and brings my hand to the back of her neck. I rub my fingers along her skin, feeling an unfamiliar protrusion and some scarring.

“What’s this,” I ask, as horror starts to build up in the pit of my stomach.

“It’s a bomb,” she replies, and the words cut right through me. My hand flinches, and I almost start to scoot away from her before deciding to stay. She wouldn’t put me in danger, and she needs me now more than ever.

“Bakuda invited all the captains and lieutenants to a meeting,” she continues, “and she put this in my neck. Said it was to keep us all loyal. Then she had us bring our men in so she could do the same, then it was everyone else in the gang, then every Asian in the city between fifteen and fifty. She’ll probably start on the other ethnicities soon, if she doesn’t self-destruct.”

I don’t know what to say. Don’t know what I can say. The things she’s been going through are so far beyond anything I’ve ever experienced, so far beyond what I can understand.

“Bakuda, she… she sent some of the guys out to start the bombings, then sent people like me out to fight the other gangs, the police and the army when they started moving into the city. She changed up the crews so that I had some new guys, as well as the people who were loyal to me. I had to act tough in front of them, couldn’t let them see me as weak for even a second. Had to keep them strong too, make sure they fought rather than ran, or Bakuda would have had me killed for being soft.”

I don’t ask her how she stopped them from running. I don’t want to know.

“And this?” I gesture to the scrap of bandage sticking out of the bottom of her jacket.

“After we hit the army, we got told to head back to base to restock. While we were there, we got hit by villains. I saw Empire guys, Coil’s mercenaries, some of Faultline’s crew and some other bastards I didn’t even recognize. It was a fucking slaughter.”

“So how’d you escape?”

She snorts, but there’s a bitter scowl on her face.

“I didn’t. They interrogated me, then sent me off with the other prisoners. I had my arms tied in front of me, but I knew the guy in front of me, Hisato, had a knife strapped to the small of his back. I took it, stabbed one of the mercs, took his gun,” she pats the terrifying black rifle, “and made my way here.”

“And the wound?” I fix her with a pointed stare.

“They shot me when I ran off.”

“Christ, Nova!”

She hangs her head, and we just sit there for a while. She leans over, and rests her head on my shoulders. We wait there in silence, and she eventually drifts off to sleep. I don’t, I can’t. Instead I wait for the clock to roll down, until I have just enough time to make it back before nine. I gently shake her back awake again.

“I have to go now, but I’ll come back when I can. I’ll bring food.”

She nods, still a little drowsy, and I gently set her down before stepping gingerly out of the old record shop, making sure the shutters are down behind me. I come back the next day with food, and change the dressing on her wound. The day after that I bring fresh dressings, some more antiseptic wipes and a can of beer, all the alcohol I could find. On the third day, I manage to bring her some antibiotics. Her wound isn’t looking too great, but things are still too hot out there for any real help.

Then it’s all over. Bakuda is gone, and so is Lung. The world turns upside down for the second time; Lung had been a force of nature for years, a fact of life we’d all gotten used to. On my way to Nova, I passed people celebrating in the streets. They were throwing themselves at each other, kissing and cheering and filling the gutters with booze. It would be beautiful, if it weren’t for the red banners flying overhead. If it weren’t for the way the party dissolved into armed bands that clashed with lines of riot police trying to block them from burning down the ABB’s old neighborhoods.

I think I saw the lines break in a few places, but I wasn’t going to stick around to see what happened next.

Nova’s still worse for wear; shivering beneath three coats. She agrees with me that it’s not safe for her to head out yet, but we disagree on when it will be safe.

“You’re a victim! As much as anyone else!”

“I’m not. I was ‘just following orders,’” her words drip with sarcasm, “but that doesn’t excuse what I did. I killed people, Mel. Killed conscripts just because they tried to run.”

“It’ll look better if you turn yourself in.”

“No, it won’t. I did too much, went too far. All I’d do is become an example for everyone with an axe to grind. For the Empire, for the Police, for every fucking DA trying to get a reputation as tough on crime. They’d be right, too.”

I slump down in defeat, idly picking at the packaged sandwich I’m sharing with her.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Lay low for a while, then try to skip town or something.”

“Can’t you go back to your parents? Couldn’t they… couldn’t they hide you or something?”

She looks so incredibly sad at that. I don’t think she’s ever told me about her family, but I’ve never told her about mine either.

“Dad died when I was little, before mom brought us to America. Me and her… we haven’t really been speaking since she found out I was in the ABB. Now… well… she’s Asian and forty-seven. I think I saw her in another crew, with a bomb in her neck.”

It’s like a bucket of icy water has been poured down my neck. Tears start to flow down Nova’s face, and I pull her in close as we just cry into each other’s arms. She’s so desperate now, so helpless. She’s lost, and I’m the only person who can help her find her way.

“Okay. I’ll help. The schools are starting up again tomorrow, but I’ll figure something out. I’ll get you through this, don’t worry.”

We lie there for a while, listening to the chants from outside as another Empire rally marches past, looking for scalps. A plan starts to form in my head, before solidifying as I catch the bus back. The city’s started coming back to life, but things are going to get worse before it gets better.

I couldn’t have been more right. Within days, the world is turned upside down again as someone reveals the identity of every Empire cape. The cape fans at Immaculata are rabid with excitement, of course, but for almost everyone else there’s only one name that matters. Max Anders.

Brockton’s prodigal son is Kaiser, the leader of the Empire Eighty-Eight. Max Anders, whose philanthropic works can be seen across the bay, runs a fascist gang determined to remake the bay in their image. Max Anders, the man who runs the bay’s biggest employer. Both of the Bay’s biggest employers, if rumors about the size of the Empire are to be believed. I shook his hand once, at a Medhall staff party dad got invited to. Now his Empire are trying to burn down the city, with Purity herself executing a journalist on live TV.

Suddenly, mom and dad are too busy to worry about me. Dad’s too busy trying to keep the company from collapsing as the stock price plummets, and every federal agency in the country stops by to rummage through the files. They’re all armed, and they all stamp through the house without a care in the world.

With all that going on, it’s easy to tell mom that I’m going to start getting up earlier to use the school gym. I don’t know if she believes me, or if she thinks I just want to be out of the house before the next batch of feds arrives, but she gives me her blessing. I start to leave the house at half-six, heading straight for Nova before changing into my school uniform in the old record shop. It becomes just another new normal.

I’m just getting off the bus near the old record shop. It’s not a long journey, and I could walk it, but I’m not naturally an early riser, and mom would get a lot more suspicious if I’m staying out too long after school. The streets are empty this early in the morning, apart from a slow stream of early-risers driving to work. It’s almost peaceful, after Bakuda and Purity made their attempts to destroy the city.

A low moan starts to spread across the city, a sonorous wail that rises and lowers in pitch. It takes my brain a few seconds to catch up to what I’m hearing, then it finally hits me as a bus pulls to a stop in the middle of the road. My phone chimes, and I look down to see a message pop up on the touchscreen.

‘S-CLASS THREAT – Leave your homes – Find the nearest shelter – Follow the directions of local authorities’

Then another text, and another, and another. My heart stop in my chest, and I let my bag fall from my shoulders. For a moment, my thoughts dart back home, and I consider trying to run back to my parents before stamping the idea down. It’s too far. I can’t make it in time. They’ll be fine; there’s a shelter two blocks away. They’ll be fine, but Nova wont.

I run, my sneakers pounding along the pavement as I start to breathe heavily. I can’t keep my thoughts straight as a low pain starts to build in my chest, and a stich starts to build in my gut. I can’t stop. I can’t stop. I throw my bag to the ground, forgetting about the textbooks and todays assignments and the supplies for Nova, and just focus on running.

People start to pour out of the buildings on either side of me, dressed in whatever they’d fallen asleep in and the occasional hastily-thrown on shoes. I see parents leading their children by the hand, or carrying the slower ones as they desperately try to move together. A police van speeds around the corner, slowing only long enough to let out a single officer who starts to marshal the crowds, leading them to the closest shelter. I ignore the flow, ducking off into a shortcut that brings me out in front of the record shop, just in time to see Nova struggling to lift the shutters.

I help her lift the rusty metal grates up, then hold them there while she ducks under them. She’s wearing the rifle over one shoulder, held by a makeshift sling, but she’s left everything else behind. I start to move down the street, only to stop as I see how much pain each step is bringing her. I move her arm over my shoulder, and ignore her as she tries to brush it off. We stagger down the street together, as fast as I can move her. We’re not fast enough to match the flow of people, and I know the nearby shelter might be full when we get there, so I take us deeper into the city, towards downtown.

The police start to close off the roads, herding people towards specific shelters and trying to make sense of the panic. It’s a mass emergency response, the sort we have annual drills for and regular lessons in school. It’s chaotic, disorganized, but things are just about flowing in the right direction. We manage to tag on to a large group as it’s herded through the streets, passing the flashing lights of police cars. A couple of capes force their way through the crowd, being directed to wherever the capes are supposed to go by a couple of officers.

I don’t recognize them. Don’t even know if they’re heroes or villains, though they say that doesn’t matter at times like this.

I can see a storm cloud slowly advancing from the ocean, and people start to scream. That’s what makes it real to me, more than the sirens or the panic. That’s what makes me haul Nova along as the crowd turns desperate, and starts to rush. People start to get rid of all the silly little things that they decided to bring along, they start to scramble and clamber no matter how much the police tries to slow them down, tries to keep things organized. Leviathan is coming, and nobody wants to be here when he arrives.

Someone bumps into me, and Nova’s arm falls from my shoulder, dropping to one knee in a painful fall. I stop, as people start to push and shove past me, and help her up before moving on. It puts us at the back of the crowd, just in front of the police officers responsible for picking up those who get knocked over, or trampled. Nova’s rifle is still over her shoulder, but nobody tells her to take it off. Nobody seems to care about that sort of thing right now.

Eventually, the shelter comes into view. It’s built beneath a small library, and I can see everyone filing down a set of concrete stairs next to the building. We’re some of the last people down, stepping through the twenty-foot wide vault door. The space inside is filled with people; a cavernous bunker with tiered walkways and separate rooms for the first aid station, bathrooms, and a few bunks. People are everywhere, not quite packed in like sardines but not comfortable either. Nova and I sit ourselves down against the wall, next to one of the side rooms, as the enormous vault door swings closed and seals itself.

Then there’s nothing to do except wait; hours of tense isolation as the earth shakes beneath out feet, and faint tremors start to become audible through the walls. We’ve no idea what’s happening in the outside world, and there’s no way of finding out this far underground. The PRT officer in charge of the shelter has an outside line, but he’s secure in his office. He has more important things to worry about than keeping us informed.

Me and Nova just huddle together in our own little world, separated from the rest of the bunker by our intimacy, and by the implicit threat of the rifle on her back. We used to be scared of people seeing us together like this, but it doesn’t seem to matter now. Right now, in this shelter, all our worries and concerns seem so much less important.

The earth starts to tremor again before shaking violently, sending Nova tumbling into my arms. There’s a horrible sound as cracks start to appear all along the far wall of the shelter, and in some of the other rooms. Chunks of concrete start to fall, and a few people go down as they’re hit by masonry, with a couple of people being crushed altogether. There’s no way of knowing what cased it, but it sends panic throughout the room. A couple of police officers try to calm everyone down, breaking open supplies of premade sandbags and trying to form people into teams as water starts to pour through the wall.

Pretty soon, there’s sixty people slowly building a wall of sandbags across the width of the room, creating a barrier to stop the spread of water. There’s another crack, quite near us, and water starts to pour through the doorway we’re sitting in. I scramble to my feet, pulling Nova up with me. She takes one look at the water cascading through the wall at the end of the long room of cots, and some part of her seems to come back.

She seems to regain some of her confidence, and starts grabbing people and dragging them over to where the sandbags are kept, until we have a steady chain of people piling them up in the doorway, trying to block off the room entirely so that it can flood without sinking us. The water keeps pouring in, past my ankles and up my legs, and soon enough I’m wading through it up to my waist as I go back and forth with the sandbags, helping Nova however I can.

Everyone else is slowly growing even more panicked, and a lot of the parents now have to hold their kids out of the water so that they don’t drown. There’s a horrible pause as the door starts to creak, before being thrown aside by an unseen force as yet more water flows in from the stairwell. It’s getting difficult to move now.

Two capes clamber over the rubble, and a sense of relief starts to spread throughout the room. I recognize one of them as Laserdream of New Wave, but I’ve never seen the other one before. Even so, just having them here is enough to reassure people, and everyone listens when the hero speaks.

“Everyone out!”

Relief floods through the room, and people drop their sandbags and start to rush for the exits. I join the crowds, a little further back than I’d like, with Nova right in front of me, leading me by the hand. Everyone’s pressed together again, as they crowd towards the stairs. We’re almost out, almost at the entrance, when I hear muffled screaming, growing louder and louder as the flow of the crowd turns against us, forcing everyone back into the shelter. I see a few people get knocked down, and I know they’ll either be trampled to death or down in the waist-deep water.

And then he’s here. One claw on either side of the vault door as he hunches his body to come through. Thirty feet tall, with a humanoid body of scaly green skin and four glowing green eyes peering out from his face. He steps through, and I feel my legs start to fail me. Someone pushes me back, and it takes me a second to realize it was Nova. She’s shouldered her rifle, her hand on the second trigger, and a narrow beam of painfully-bright violet light plays across the monster’s chest for a moment, before he tilts his body to strike out with an immense tail.

The whip-like tail slices through people in a flash, pulping muscle and bone and bisecting everyone in its path. It catches Nova in the shoulder, and I watch without understanding as there’s a strange flash from her neck. For an instant, I see her as a perfect glass statue, before cracks spread across her glistening form in an instant and she collapses into a glittering dust that flies back into my face. An after-echo of Leviathan’s tail follows it, a blade of water that slices through another dozen people and knocks me back against the wall.

I feel heat spreading across my stomach, and I look down to see a gash through my clothing, pouring a steady stream of warm blood into the reddening water. I stumble back, falling against a heap of sandbags, and press my arms against my stomach to stop the bleeding, even as Leviathan strikes again and another twenty people die. My eyes start to blur over, and I think I see the other hero slinking away along the opposite wall. I can’t see Lazerdream, can’t even make out faces anymore.

I start to shiver, a horrible chill spreading over me, and my hands fall from my stomach. I don’t have the strength left in me to keep them up.

Something hits Leviathan from behind, and he turns briefly to strike back at the entrance of the shelter. He goes to chase it, clambering awkwardly through the shattered doorway. He’s gone. It’s safe.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding in, and my eyelids fall shut…


	58. Aftershock: 9.01

Nobody talks on the way back, not in any way that matters. Sometimes people will chat, but never about anything significant. Never about anything insignificant, either; Newter doesn’t call us all around to look at some stupid fucking thing he found online, and Emily doesn’t bother coming down from her bunk. When we do talk, it seems like it’s because one of us realized that we should be talking, that the silence has stretched on for too long.

Shamrock… Shamrock shut down the moment we left Phoenix. She seems quite happy to lie on her bunk and look up at the ceiling, like a servitor without any orders to follow. Every now and then one of the others will make an effort to talk to her and she’ll come back to life just long enough for the conversation to run its course, before switching off again.

Our bodies might be slowly inching back up North along the motorway, but our minds are already there. I spend my time online, flicking through news sites in the hope that I can build up a picture of just what happened to the city I now call home. Emily has the worst of it; unlike the rest of us, she knew people in the Bay, really knew them. People she hasn’t spoken to since she first ran away, and started living with us. Most of them probably thought she was dead.

She can’t contact most of them. This ‘Leviathan’ attacked at around quarter to seven in the morning, so most people were still asleep. They ran from their houses without even the clothes on their back. Some of them weren’t wearing shoes. It’s easy to forget something as small as a phone under those circumstances, and a lot of the ones who kept their phones don’t have any way to charge them with the power still out. All Emily can do is check the list of confirmed residents in refugee camps, a number that’s slowly growing each day but not nearly fast enough.

There’ll be other survivors, of course. Apparently, there’ll be a census of all intact homes in a week or so, to see how many families are still living in their old homes. Tens of thousands of people have already left the city, and they’ll need to be tracked down and identified. They’re still pulling the occasional survivor out of the rubble, so they’ll need to be added to the census as well. Then, and only then, can they start to get an estimate of the number of dead.

We can’t take the lorry into the city itself; the Palanquin is apparently still standing, but a lot of the roads surrounding it are flooded. So we pull into the car park of a decrepit shopping center a few miles out of town, and I clamber out of the back of the lorry. There are two heavy-duty vehicles waiting for us, both obviously military surplus. They’re immense trucks, flatbeds, with eight enormous wheels that should make easy work of the flooded streets. One of the trucks is backed up to the side of the lorry, and I help to push my cumbersome tank onto the trailer, before throwing a tarp over it and strapping it down.

The other truck already has a few pallets of supplies loaded onto it: bottled water, jerry cans and a few dozen cardboard boxes containing rations. Seems like civilization has collapsed in the city, and we don’t exactly qualify for government relief. As we’re loading up, a convoy of white painted trucks rolls past under police escort. There’s a logo on the side of each truck, FEMA, and I tense up for a second, but they pass us without incident. Faultline’s three drivers tense up as well, one for each truck and another to take care of the lorry, before stepping back up into the angular cabs of the vehicles. They’re dressed in utilitarian grey fatigues, bulletproof vests and balaclavas but I’d recognize Mike’s bulging gut anywhere. Seems the Palanquin’s bouncers have upped their game since we left.

Shamrock throws her kitbag up next to my tank, and the two of us scramble onto the back of the truck, as Newter perches on top of the cab. Faultline and Gregor get onto the back of the other vehicle, while Elle gets to ride in the cab. She can’t do much while we’re on the move, and she deserves to be comfortable. I hear Faultline’s voice over the radio as she signals to the drivers, and then we’re rolling down the highway past cars that swerve out of the way of the heavily armed bastards cruising on the back of two ten-ton trucks.

The small town gives way to the forest that surrounds the city, and I stare into the trees as I take in the fresh air that brushes against my face, supporting myself by holding onto the tank as the trees give way to the suburbs. If it wasn’t so quiet, it would be hard to notice that anything’s different here. If it weren’t for the endless posters announcing where the nearest water and food distribution center is, then there’d be no obvious sign of the starvation and shortages. This area is almost deserted, something which can probably be explained by the size of the houses. If you’ve got this sort of money to burn, then there’s no way you’ll be sticking around at a time like this.

We pass quickly through the ghost town, and into the city proper. The stretch of houses between the suburbs and the city itself are a lot lower-income, but they seem to have got out mostly unscathed as well. There aren’t any obvious signs of damage, but that doesn’t mean things aren’t bad. The gangs are out in force, and there are a lot more Empire tags than they used to be. At least, I assume they’re Empire. The two eights seem to have been replaced by a stylized wolf’s head, but the slurs are still the same. A couple of guys in black and red linger on the street corners, outside a decrepit building they’ve turned into an outpost.

The gangs are more obvious than before, more blatant and overtly armed. I’ve seen all this before; something happens that makes the police pull back. Might be a disaster, like what happened here, but I remember it being apathy. It just became too costly to police whole swathes of the city, too dangerous, so the police bulled back to what they could hold. In the places they left behind, all the postcode gangs started to grow and grow until they got too big and started to fragment. Then you’re left with the estate gangs, built up around tower blocks or clusters of tower blocks, ruling over hundreds of families in some bullshit neo-feudal social order.

Sure, the police would slap them down when they got too big, just like I’m sure the PRT will slap these fuckers down, but it’s a lot easier to just ignore them so long as they don’t hurt anything that’s actually important. It’s not like there’s any corporate profit to be made in these neighborhoods, so there’s no annoying lobbyists pestering the local MP. Just make the right noises about ‘community outreach’ and ‘gradual reforms’ and nobody will really care. Why should they give a shit about the victims? It’s not like I ever did, not until it happened to me…

Our convoy turns north onto Lord Street, the main thoroughfare through the center of the city, and downtown comes into sight. It looks barren, with shattered skyscrapers leaning against those that are still standing. An entire section of the skyline seems to have collapsed, and great gaping holes of shattered glass riddle the surviving structures. I lurch unsteadily as the road drops down into water that almost comes up to the top of the wheels, and the powerful engines start to strain a little as we drive through the floodwaters.

It’s not enough to stop us, though, and we roll through the floodwaters leaving a steady wake behind us, a wake that laps up against old storefronts and parked cars that have long since been waterlogged and abandoned. When we last came down this road, it was packed with restaurants and people. It’s a little strange to see it now, in such a state.

I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye, and whip around to track a woman as she follows us from the nearby rooftops, moving between them in a blur before pausing to watch as we pass, then blurring off again. I trigger the transmitter in my voice box, and point at her for good measure. Normally I’d be worried about the gesture letting her know that we’ve seen her, but she’s not being very subtle about her snooping, so perhaps she doesn’t care. She certainly wouldn’t be wearing a costume covered in electric-blue circuit patterns if she didn’t want to be seen. Not that it isn’t a good look on her.

“Cape, shadowing us from the left.”

Off to my left, unnaturally steady on the shifting vehicle, Shamrock levels her shotgun at the moving figure. To my eyes, it looks like she’s a little too far away for that, but who am I to say how her powers work?

“I see her,” comes Faultline’s clipped reply. “Battery, with the Protectorate. No doubt they’re interested in our return, so they sent her to shadow us. She won’t be looking for a fight.”

I nod sagely as Battery dashes between another set of buildings, leaning up against the side of a taller structure to watch us with her arms folded across her chest. The way she’s moving is familiar to me; it’s similar to a lot of the posturing I used to see before a match. Completely useless when it comes to the fight itself, which is why I never went in for it, but I can see why Capes would make use of it.

Besides me, Shamrock still has her shotgun trained on the distant cape. I reach over, as slowly and gently as I am able, and push the barrel down.

“I find it’s best to listen to Faultline when it comes to cape shit. She’s part of the culture, while you and I are very much outsiders. It means that she knows how these people think, how they’ll act.”

She stares up at me for a moment, her eyes featureless behind her mask, before lowering her shotgun entirely, instead simply looking at our welcome party as she darts between another pair of rooftops.

“All this politicking is new to me,” she admits, “I never really got taught about any of this.”

Taught by who, you walking mystery? Still, I know that’s a question best left for less uncertain circumstances.

“You and me both…”

Downtown draws closer, but we’re not headed there. Instead, the convoy veers off onto one of the side streets, and starts to crawl up a gentle hill. It’s enough to put us out of the water and back onto dry land, though this part of the city is just as abandoned as the flooded areas. Not much call for pubs, clubs and restaurants quite yet.

It’s already dark out, and the sun has behind the hills to the west. The last time I saw the Palanquin at this hour, it was lit up like Bonfire Night, with great yellow letters declaring our name to anyone who was looking. There was a line stretched out the door, packed full of the hammered and the tipsy, just waiting for their chance at our little slice of paradise.

That Palanquin is gone. It’s shuttered and dark with the lights switched off, or out of power, and the frontage concealed behind sandbags and steel barriers. The door is still there, but it’s behind a small armored parapet and watched over by one of the bouncers, his crisp suit exchanged for body armor and his discrete Taser for an assault rifle. It seems we’re not fucking around, which is all well and proper. I’ve lost count of the looted and shuttered businesses we’ve passed on the way here, and very few of them stocked as much booze as we do.

Our convoy passes the Palanquin by, wheeling around the end of the block to pull into the alleyway that bisects it. The rear of the Palanquin has also been sandbagged, and the guard on this side waves us over. It can’t be cheap to keep five full-time soldiers on at a time like this, especially since our last job was pro-bono. Maybe the boss will downsize now that we’re back in town?

The shutters jerk into life, slowly lifting to reveal the old loading bay of the factory that came before the Palanquin. It’s a good sign, as it means we still have some power. I guess Faultline keeps a backup generator somewhere, which would explain the jerry cans full of antiquated petroleum fuel. The stink of it assaults me, even through the metal cans.

Shamrock and Newter both hop off, while I stick onto the vehicle until it’s level with the loading bay. Gingerly, I push my tank off the back of the truck and into the Palanquin, moving it onto the old cargo elevator and back up into my room. The section of wall we cut out is still propped up in the corridor, looking like it hasn’t been touched since we left, so I carefully lift it back into place. I’ll probably have to seal it up later myself; not like anyone else is going to care about that at a time like this. Still, it’s not like I’m not used to the grunt work. Speaking of which…

I quickly pop back down the stairs to the rear entrance, and set about helping the Crew with the heavier stuff. Mostly the cans of fuel, which I carry down to the emergency generator in the basement. It’s an imperfect and inefficient thing, linked to a series of ducts that draw away the foul-smelling petroleum fuels. Sometimes I forget just how backwards this place is, but then something like this comes along to remind me. Give me a good He3 engine any day of the week, heat emissions be damned.

The next load is a bunch of ration boxes that go into the storeroom off the side of the dance floor. The floor itself is almost completely dark, to save our limited electricity, and looks completely different to what it was before. It somehow seems both smaller and larger at the same time. It’s larger because none of the people are here, but the way it used to be filled from end to end by heaving dancers, and the way the lights used to shine and play off the reflective surfaces of the walls and floor made it so much larger than it is now, so much more alive.

I put the rations away, then clamber up the stairs and through the empty VIP area, the dim room even darker in the complete absence of light. A section of the room has been closed off by curtains, and I gently push them aside to see four camp cots covered in personal effects. Our bouncers have become live-in guards, and, from the look of the rest of the VIP area, they’ve made this place their home. I close the curtain and walk away; it seems far too personal a space to linger in.

Upstairs, our own section of the Palanquin is half-lit, with light bleeding from the rooms into the dark corridor. Faultline is in her office booting up her computer, trying to get a signal. There’s a map of the city spread across her desk, and I don’t need to ask her to know that she’s about to try and rebuild her information network in the city. Too much shit has happened for her old intel to be even a little useful.

Shamrock is waiting in the corner, her hands clasped behind her back and her spine straight. Her stance is military, or an imitation of it, but there’s something about it that reminds me more of Citrine or Jessica than any of the soldiers I’ve known, an inherent professionalism and submissiveness. It’s like she’s fading into the background behind Faultline, like she’s just a tool waiting to become useful again. It’s a little unsettling to look at.

“All the shit’s inside, boss,” I tell her, a little more flippant than usual. Guess Shamrock’s reinforcing my rebellious streak.

“Good,” she replies, more to herself than to me. “Tomorrow I want you to help the men seal off one end of the alleyway. We already have the barricades and razor wire; I just need you to move them. Then we’ll put a gate at the other end, so that we can protect our trucks.”

“No bother. You think that’s going to piss off the millicents?”

She shakes her head, and a small smile plays across her face.

“They have bigger things to worry about than a group of capes who won’t move without payment.”

She leans back in her chair, turning her head to look at Shamrock, who visibly stiffens and somehow smartens up her posture a little more.

“We’re not tight on space at the moment, but I like to keep everyone up here. The Palanquin will open up again, eventually, and I want that to happen with as little disruption as possible. So, you’ll be rooming with Sonnie,” she jerks her thumb over her shoulder at me. “Is that alright with you?”

If it’s not, then Shamrock doesn’t show it. She just nods.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Melanie’s expression softens a little. Maybe she’s realized that Shamrock’s neuroses are a little different to mine.

“You don’t need to be formal with me when we’re off the job. It’s Melanie, Labyrinth is Elle, Spitfire is Emily and Khanivore is Sonnie.”

“I understand, thanks.” She replies, but doesn’t offer up a name of her own. I smile at her, as best I can.

“You can’t miss it. It’s the one with the tank.”

She smiles briefly at me, before schooling her expression with a glance at Melanie. She leaves a minute later, with a camp cot slung over her shoulder after Melanie apologizes for the lack of a proper bed. I stay behind, waiting for her to get out of earshot.

“What’s the play, boss?”

She leans back in her chair, steepling her fingers.

“There isn’t one. It’s not the right time to press her about her past. Things are too… messy at the moment, and she’s too new. I’ll be telling Gregor to hold off for now. In the meantime, I want you to make friends with her. Not to spy on her, or manipulate her, or press her about her past. She has to feel welcome here.”

I crack a grin.

“I get it. Put your two murderous rogues together.”

Melanie scowls, and I know that I’ve put my foot in my mouth again.

“If that’s what you think, then you haven’t been paying attention. Her issues with authority are almost the exact opposite of yours. I can’t reach out to her, because she shuts down around anyone she sees as having authority over her. It’s why Gregor had to talk her down, while I just stood there uselessly.”

There’s a bit of strength in that word; a wound that hasn’t yet healed.

“Gregor is the closest to her in personality, from what I’ve seen so far, but I can’t exactly room her with him. But you have something in common with her that the others don’t.”

She pauses, clearly waiting for me to fill in the blanks. We’re both killers, at least I assume so, but I don’t think that’s what she’s talking about. I think back to when we first encountered her, in a car park in Phoenix.

“A past.”

Faultline nods, and I know I’ve got the right answer.

“You both remember who you were, and you’re both stuck on an unfamiliar world. Newter and Gregor don’t have that experience, whereas you’ve already been through what she’s going through now. Help her get through it.”

“Sure thing,” I say wholeheartedly, then start to make my way out.

“Sonnie.” I turn back to see a serous look on Melanie’s face.

“You and Shamrock were both taken from another world. Find out if it’s the same one.”

I nod, before pacing back down the corridor to my room. Our room now, I suppose. Shamrock has already set up her camp cot and stripped down to her knickers, her skintight suit neatly folded on top of her bag. She’s clambering into the sleeping bag on top of the cot, but freezes as I enter.

“Sorry,” she says as she starts to move again, “I’ve been sleeping alone for a while.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I reply as I clamber into my tank, removing my voice box and placing it on the outside of the tank. “I’m not exactly the friendliest face to have as a roommate.”

She smiles a little, watching as the amniotic fluid starts to pour into the tank.

“Is that comfortable? Sleeping in a tank like that?”

“It really is,” I reply through the voice box. Once it’s up to my chin I look up to see the wide-open doorway, and the corridor beyond. I took the door of ages ago, and never bothered to put it back.

“Sorry about the door. I’ll put it back in tomorrow, though I might need your help with the screws.”

Something strange passes across her face, like she’d not even noticed that she was getting changed in full view of the open doorway, that she’d be sleeping in a room with a hole in the wall.

“It’s fine,” she smiles at me, “I’m used to it.”

Are you now?


	59. Aftershock: 9.02

I gently toss the piece of scrap metal onto the back of the flatbed, adding it to the ever-growing heap. Gregor steps up besides me, dragging a long piece of corrugated iron, and I take it out of his hands before lifting it up. I step back, looking over the spoils of our little scavenger hunt. The back of the truck is piled high with sturdy lengths of metal, steel posts and any other piece of useful scrap.

Looking over the pile, I think we have enough for what we need. Any more, and it’ll just start to spill off the side of the truck. Looking over at Gregor, I can see he thinks the same way. We step around to the side of the truck, manhandling the tarpaulin over the top of our haul and slowly moving up the side of the truck, tying down the green sheet over our haul. Shamrock and our driver come back from where they’d been standing guard to help out, before the driver steps up into the cabin and the rest of us clamber onto the back of the truck.

We pull out of the scrapyard, long since abandoned and flooded up to the ankles in water. Well, to a normal person’s ankles. It’s not the first place we’ve stopped at, but it’s probably the last. We’ve been roaming all over town, pausing to claim some handy scrap of metal or stout barrier before moving on to the next site. A lot of the city has been picked clean, but there’s more than enough decaying urban sprawl for everyone to go through. The only area that’s off limits to us is downtown, where the government is busy with their own looting operation. Except it’s ‘salvaging’ when they do it. I still haven’t been down there, but I’m very eager to see what it all looks like.

This close to the shoreline and the old boardwalk, the floodwaters are a lot worse. In places, they’re almost two meters deep and we have to drive around them. The decay is worse here, too. This place used to be as upmarket as the bay got, so naturally it was the first choice when it came to picking over the spoils. Now it’s supposedly in the hands of the Merchants, the joke of a gang that got kicked off the high table at Somer’s Rock. They’ve expanded since, their numbers swelled by new capes and hundreds, if not thousands, of displaced people desperate for something to cling onto.

Their presence is visible everywhere, from the huddled figures hiding in the rubble who spit at us as we pass to the graffiti on the walls, a strange mix of the usual slurs and shit-talking with old socialist rallying calls. Skidmark, Squealer and Mush, glorious leaders of the vanguard of the proletariat. It’d be funny if it wasn’t such an integral part of the fucking tragedy that is Brockton Bay.

The road ahead is blocked by fallen masonry, and the ruins of a collapsed building that got swept inland by one of the tidal waves. The truck lurches to the right as we pull into a side street, a narrow two-lane road bordered on both sides by three-story buildings. If it sounds suspicious, that’s because it is.

I tense up, and start to track my eyes over our surroundings while Gregor does the same. We’re both perched right behind the cabin, holding onto it to keep us in place on the uneven streets. Shamrock is in front of us, sitting right at the edge of the cab with her legs dangling over the passenger window. She’s seen what we’ve seen, and scrambles up to stand on top of the cab, keeping perfectly balanced as she brings her shotgun up to her shoulder.

Sure enough, halfway down the road a disused bus rolls out of an alleyway, slamming into the frontage of an old café, while a van with a working engine blocks the other end. People seemingly spring out of the woodwork, dressed in filthy matted clothing and without any sign of obvious gang affiliation, save for a few odd bangles on some of their wrists. The ones with the most bangles are organizing the crowd, and every last one of them is armed with lengths of sharpened pipe torn from wherever they could be found. The weapon of choice for the post-apocalypse.

They rush forwards, screaming bloody murder, and I wheel on my heels as Gregor’s internal organs start to churn beneath his skin. There’s a crack, as a gunshot echoes throughout the confined space, and the crowd seems to lose their momentum, then stop entirely as they seem to realize just what their trap has caught. Shamrock’s still standing on top of the cab, her gun pointed into the sky, before shouldering her shotgun and leveling it at the bulk of the crowd.

Gregor strides up onto the top of our heap of salvage, while I drop down into the street and start to slowly pace towards our would-be ambushers.

“We are not helpless refugees,” Gregor shouts over the crowd, “we are not the police, or the Protectorate! We will not be inconvenienced!”

Shamrock punctuates his statement by firing another brace of buckshot over the heads of the crowd, and I leap forwards with a snarl that sends them scurrying away like rats, almost scrambling over each other in their haste to get away. They’re probably not cowards; we’re just a lot heavier than they were expecting. Most of the trucks still driving around the city are with FEMA, or a couple of private relief agencies. Easy pray for a group this size, and carrying cargo of food, water and medicine that’s well worth the potential risk.

Just another new threat to think about. This city’s about to boil over, again, and it’s not going to be pretty when it happens.

I step out in front of the truck and move over to the bus, still embedded in the frontage of the store opposite. I move over to the front of it, callously trampling the shattered tables of the old café, and drive my claws into the metal. I use that leverage to start to heave the bus backwards, my legs heaving and straining until I start to push off the ground with my tail as well. The bus rolls backwards, inching slowly back into the alleyway, until there’s just enough space for our ten-ton truck to squeeze past.

I split my tendrils and use them to tear the front wheels off the bus, before setting it down onto the pavement. It’s a minor bit of altruism, but I’m also pissed at the interruption. I clamber back onto the truck, grateful to be moving again as we make our way back through the city, back into the flooded streets before the water drops away to reveal the Palanquin’s hill. The club’s changed a little, which is why we’re out scavenging.

We can’t drive straight into the alley anymore, instead having to drive around the block to the other end. I blocked this side of the alley off with a wall of cars, stacking them three high across the length of the alleyway. Then we took the salvage from out last scavenging haul, and created a barricade wall eighteen feet tall, topped with some of Faultline’s stock of razor wire. This wall got lashed to the cars to create a strong foundation, ensuring that we stay out of sight and out of mind for all except the most deranged scavenger. It won’t stop a cape, but any cape in the city would know that there’s seven capes staying here. Our numbers mean more than a wall twice this height.

The other side of the alleyway is defenseless, which was the point of this whole escapade. We need the trucks, they’re our only lifeline out of the city, but they’re also the thing we most need to protect. Vehicles like this one are the only means of bringing large amounts of material into the city, with the roads in the state they are. That means every would-be tyrant would kill to get his hands on them, to transport food, water, drugs, whores. Anything and everything.

Once the truck is all parked up, me and Gregor take the tarp off and I start to sort out the largest pieces of our makeshift gate. It takes time, with me, Gregor and a couple of the bouncers moving the metal around while Gregor secures the whole thing with some sort of quick-drying adhesive. It degrades after a while, but gives us more than enough time to secure the two gates with more mundane means.

I help out where I can as we lift the gates into place, drilling the hinges into the wall and reinforcing the whole thing with pilfered steel girders. As I’m outside, reaching up to string the razor wire across the top of the gate, I catch movement out of the corner of my eye and wheel on the spot, as the guard beside me raises his rifle.

There’s a girl, looking like she’s in her early twenties, standing in the middle of the road. She’s dressed in warm clothing that doesn’t fit her at all, probably handouts, and she almost runs when I look at her, her eyes darting briefly back to an alleyway on the other side of the road. I see movement in the alleyway, and make out a few figures huddled behind one of the bins. There’s something familiar about the girl, like I’ve seen her before somewhere.

“Help you with something?” I speak up, watching as the girl flinches yet again.

“Um.” Whatever confidence got her here, it seems to have run out. I cock my head in curiosity, and rotate my hand in the universal gesture for ‘hurry the fuck up.’

“Well…” I look at her again, taking in her trembling knees and the way she’s pointedly not looking me in the eye. She’s terrified. I drop to all fours, putting my head level with hers, and hope it doesn’t come off as too predatory.

“Speak up, girl. I don’t have all day.”

She swallows, and seems to find some hidden reserve of courage. One of the people in the alleyway has moved so far forwards that I can almost see him. A man, maybe twice the age of the girl. The sight of him has me narrowing my eyes.

“Please let us stay!”

Now that I wasn’t expecting, unless this is some sort of trojan horse.

“And who’s ‘us’,” I ask, turning my head to stare at the people in the alleyway. “I can see you back there,” I shout, “so come out right now or we’ll have to start shooting!”

There’s movement, hesitant, as the man steps out into the sunlight. His clothes are just as ragged as the girl’s, and I stop dead when I see who’s following him. A woman, the same age as the man, with a teenage boy close behind her and a little girl clinging to her legs. This isn’t a pimp and his product, or a fucking trojan horse. It’s a family. The guard speaks up beside me.

“I think that’s Anna, Ma’am. She is… she was one of the bar staff.”

That’s where I’ve seen her before! Mentally, I kick myself. I kept telling myself that I ought to learn the names of the people who work at the Palanquin, but I never fucking bothered. My heart starts to soften, as the family starts to cluster together in front of me, but I still need to be sure.

“And why can’t you stay at one of the refugee camps, Anna?”

She jumps again as I say her name. It’s a cheap trick, pretending to remember who she is, but I need to know.

“They’re not safe!” It’s her mother that shouts, stepping forwards. I guess it must have grated on the parents to have to rely on their daughter to get them into our perimeter.

“Not for us, and not for a girl her age…” she continues, and it all starts to make sense. I feel my stomach churn, and clench my clawed fist reflexively.

“Fenrir’s Chosen basically own the camps,” Anna speaks up, her courage, or her desperation, now well in check. “I heard you were back in town, and figured it’d be safer to try our luck with you than whatever the fuck they had planned for us.”

And so, everything falls into place. Fenrir’s Chosen are one of the Empire’s splinter factions. They’re a pseudopagan aryan warrior cult, and they’re a lot less restrained than their predecessors. Anna’s a perfect target for them; young, good looking, and the wrong skin colour to be worth protecting. I can’t leave her out here.

That’s one hell of a revelation. I’m no fucking altruist. I’m a brute, a hedonist, a murderer even, but I can’t bring myself to leave these people in the lurch, to just abandon them to those fucking cunts! I’ll do what I can for them, as little as that is.

“It’s not my decision to make,” I say, hurriedly continuing when I see their crestfallen expressions, “Faultline’s got to make the call, and she’s out at the moment. But!” The faint glimmer of hope appears on their faces. “You can wait in the VIP lounge until she comes back, so long as you don’t leave the room.”

Their gratitude comes in waves as they pass me, the former bouncer leading the former bartender into the Palanquin. I just stand there, separate from it all, and look out over the ruined streets, and west towards the slowly setting sun. Eventually, I shake my head, and start to make my own way inside, going up the back stairs so as to avoid the now-occupied VIP lounge. If Faultline kicks them out, I’m not sure what I’ll do.

So I don’t think about it. Instead I linger in our lounge doing not much of anything, until it comes time to heat up another bland pack of rations for the evening meal. I miss fresh ingredients, but I understand that needs must. At least there’s still hot sauce to pour into the silvery packet of bland food until it’s spicy enough that I don’t need to taste it. I don’t really need to eat it, not with the tank in the next room over, but it’s a bit of a social thing. We all sit around the lounge and complain about the food, and I can’t well do that if I don’t have anything to eat.

We’re coping alright, but the situation is starting to get to us. Melanie’s hardly here anymore, still trying to build up a picture of what’s going on in the city. Shamrock is here, in body, but not in spirit. She’s still cold and distant whenever the boss shows up. Elle has it the worst. I think she’s taking the change in circumstances quite hard, and it’s brought on a bad spell with her power. She’s back to unconsciously changing her environment, and Emily is having to make sure she doesn’t dribble food down her chin. It’s not a problem I can fix, and that hurts most of all.

Everyone steps out once we’ve eaten our fill, and I’m left alone in the lounge. Melanie comes back a little later, dressed in a balaclava underneath a hoodie. She’s being inconspicuous, which means she was out doing sneaky spy shit. She practically slumps down into the seat opposite me, and pulls the balaclava off her head. I don’t miss the bags under her eyes, but otherwise she’s still as stony faced as usual.

“I’m letting Anna and her family stay.”

I let out a long sigh in relief.

“Thanks, boss.”

“We look after our own,” is the only explanation she offers, before stepping off into her office. I wonder if there’ll be any more like Anna or her family? Just how deep is Faultline’s bleeding heart?

I extract myself from the sofa and head for my room, mine and Shamrock’s room now. She’s sitting on her bed, shipped in on one of our supply runs with a mattress and a duvet, just staring at the opposite wall with her hands folded in her lap. It’s one of the most unsettling things I’ve ever seen. I really ought to do something about this, so I sit myself against the wall directly opposite her.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

She looks up at me, as if noticing me for the first time. She waits there for a few moments, the top half of her face still concealed by her mask, before looking down at the floor and speaking.

“It doesn’t quite feel real yet. You all have this… this dynamic, in the way you interact with each other, and I’m not so sure I fit in.”

“You went from running on your own, to being part of a family of people, without any real time to get to know them.” I don’t need to guess at what she’s feeling. I reach out idly with my arm and pull across a small dufflebag.

“Exactly. Is it that obvious?” She replies, a little more strongly than before.

“I was the same way,” I reply, opening up the cupboard in the corner of the room, one of the few pieces of furniture I put in here, and start to pile some of the contents into the bag.

“So, what helped you adjust?” She leans forwards, looking at me with her piercing green eyes.

I zip the bag up and stand, as the gentle clinking of glass rings throughout the room.

“A night on the town.”


	60. Aftershock: 9.03

It’s more than a little telling that the first thing Shamrock does is reach for her shotgun, slinging it over her shoulder while her hands unconsciously check the pistol on her thigh, and the knife in her boot. It’s a practiced motion; a three-point check of the things that matter most to her.

“You know,” I begin, leaning against the wall, “you don’t need the shotgun. It’s not that sort of night out.”

She freezes, and her hand starts to drift protectively towards the weapon. She seems to be stuck in some internal debate, before she turns to look me in the eye. She speaks, hesitancy hidden behind a façade of confidence.

“Maybe, but I’d feel a lot safer with it.”

There’s a lot of weight in those words, a spark of defiance making itself known. Good. She’s testing her boundaries, rubbing up against me in an attempt to understand just how tight her leash it. I wonder how she’ll react when she learns it isn’t there?

“Fair enough. You know… we do have some heavier caliber stuff knocking around the place. Rifles, and the like. Some more stopping power can’t hurt.”

She chuckles, following me out into the corridor.

“That’s a matter of perspective. But no, the shotgun does me fine. There are over a hundred individual pellets in each shot, and I can direct their trajectory with my power. It’s the perfect weapon for taking out a crowd.”

Maybe, but I’m not so sure it’s good for our line of work. Even setting aside the lethality issue, we already have people who can deal with a crowd. She’s got the same problem that Spitfire does, in that her pellets will either cut people down like wheat or bounce uselessly off a Brute’s skin. She might be better off with something fast firing, in a larger caliber, so that she can pick apart tougher targets from a distance while I rip them apart in melee. But I’m not going to criticize her life choices. That would be counterproductive.

Instead, I gently push open the door to the girls’ room. Emily’s cut off from the internet right now, what with all this going on, and there’s not been a new fashion magazine since she got here, though that might change soon. Once we’re done securing our position, we can start to use our trucks to bring in a few of the finer things in life, the things we never realized we’d miss until we cut ourselves off from the rest of the country. Until then, Emily is working her way through her substantial music library.

I poke my head through the door, so high up in the frame that Shamrock can look into the room underneath me without needing to duck. Emily is lying back on her bed, with her feet resting on her pillows and her head at the foot, turned to look at me. Elle is sitting in the corner of her side of the room, on top a floor of yellowing marble tiles. She’s dressed in a comfortable hoodie and trackie bottoms. She’s not well enough to appreciate nicer clothes, so she might as well be comfortable.

“Emily, I’m taking Shamrock out for a piss up, a bit of a welcoming present.”

She puts on a show of being crestfallen, while her eyes drift to the bulky bag slung over my shoulder.

“You didn’t take me out for drinks when I joined…”

“You’re underage.”

“So’s she,” Emily points at Shamrock in a desperate gesture.

That doesn’t sound right. I look down at Shamrock, or, more accurately, at the top of her head. Idly, I note that her hair doesn’t smell much of anything. It’s just clean, without any knots or kinks, and tied into a utilitarian ponytail. It’s just the right amount of effort to keep clean and practical, without any sense of individual flair. What a waste.

“How old are you?” I ask, as she tilts her head back as far as it’ll go to see the source of the voice.

“Somewhere between eighteen and nineteen.”

“See? Plenty old enough.”

Emily’s lips purse, before she shrugs her shoulders and goes back to her music. I pull my head out of the room, then gently close the door so as not to disturb them. Shamrock falls back in behind me; the corridor isn’t really wide enough to allow for anything else.

“The younger one…” she begins, a little hesitantly, “is she… right, in the head?”

I sigh just a little, and I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me. She’s still not relaxed, and it took a lot out of her to ask that question. The least I can do is give her an answer.

“Elle’s a good kid. She’s sweet, and kind, but her power did a number on her, and the rest of her life has just made it worse. You remember what she did in Phoenix? That was sort of the middle level of her powers. Sometimes she’s powerful enough to cover a whole warehouse in ten minutes, sometimes it takes her that long to spread it out over a single room.”

We pass through the VIP lounge and I stop talking, as the family sheltering there look up at the two of us with wide eyes. There’s something about the awe in their eyes that unnerves me, like it’s more than we deserve. I hurry through, and Shamrock follows me. Once we’re out onto the main floor of the club, I continue from where we left off.

“The problem is that her powers fuck with her head. The more powerful she is, the… less aware she is. She loses herself in her own little worlds. That’s bad enough, but then she got fucked over by life as well. The boss found her in an asylum. They kept her doped up for a while, until they realized it didn’t have an impact on her power. Then they used her to keep some of the more unstable inmates under wraps.”

The thought of it makes me sick, as I nod to the guard on the door and make my way out into the street. The sun’s almost set, and there’s no electric streetlights to make up for its absence. I can see the towering spires of downtown, not as the glittering yellow shapes they once were but as black silhouettes against the orange sky as it fades into black. I wonder if I’ll be able to see stars tonight, without the life-bleed of the city blocking the sky.

“You can kind of tell how well she’s doing by the stuff she makes with her power. Gregor told me about what she was like when they first found her. She’d pull through horror movie asylums or abandoned hospitals, and a lot of her creations started to constrict her in some way. The chair she was sitting on would grow metal restraints to hold her down, or her bed would turn into a gurney with leather straps crisscrossing her body.”

I turn into an alleyway, and Shamrock follows. Now that we’re out in the open, she’s moved up to walk by my side, level with my head. I pause by the fire escape, reaching up to pull down the swinging set of stairs so that she can start to climb, then make my own way up. I keep talking, slowly driving my tendrils and talons into the wall to pull myself up at the same speed as her.

“When I met her, her power seemed to be about making her uncomfortable. A pile of mattresses would turn to stone, that sort of thing, but since then she’s opened up a lot. There was a psychologist the boss hired, who got her to start creating worlds instead of suppressing them. It means she’s started to use her power to make herself more comfortable, as she becomes more comfortable with it.”

Shamrock nods as she clambers up the next set of stairs, following along with her lips pursed in quiet thought.

“All this shit that’s happened to the city, it’s hitting her hard.” I think for a while, pausing mid-stride before continuing my climb. “No, it’s probably more the Palanquin than the city. She’s used to it being alive, to the music being so loud that it bleeds through onto our floor. Maybe it feels a little less like home right now.”

“I know how she feels…” Shamrock murmurs to herself, loud enough that I know she meant me to hear it, but couldn’t bring herself to say it outright.

“I love her, you know.” I say, turning my head away from Shamrock to better see my way as I pull myself onto the rooftop. “I’d fight for her, probably even die for her. She’s like a kid sister I want to protect. We might be professional on the field, but off it we’re family. It’s unavoidable, really, when you get so many misfits together into one place.”

Shamrock quiets, as I lead her from rooftop to rooftop. I was able to hop between the buildings rather easily when I was last here, but Shamrock has to take every one at a sprint. We reach one gap that’s large enough to let a car pass beneath it. I’m about to offer Shamrock a hand over, but instead she simply sprints at it like any other, leaping into the open air. There’s no way she can make such a jump and land on her feet, but she manages to catch her fingers on the opposite ledge, and haul herself up. I smile, and leap after her. Eventually, we reach the top of the hill where my last night out began, and look out across the changed city.

The Bay is empty, with no dead ships or converted oil rig. It’s just an endless expanse of ocean, lit by the dying embers of the setting sun. My eyes track the coastline, making out a cluster of darkened and jagged shapes that might be the old tankers and cargo ships, pushed against the beach and into the old docks. There’s more water than there once was, where parts of the ground has dropped beneath sea level. There’s a new lake too, an almost perfectly circular cauldron slap bang in the middle of the city, with still water flickering orange in the fading sunlight. Most of the city is completely dark.

Most, but not all. There are a few pinpricks of fluorescent lights around the various refugee camps, and the occasional pair of headlights as a vehicle moves through the dark. Those lights pale in comparison to the light between the Palanquin and the coast, set right on the edge of downtown. The sky there glows white, cutting through the creeping darkness. It’s the light from dozens of immense floodlights, all pointing towards a colossal shape.

The old Protectorate Headquarters, the converted oil rig having been tossed into the city by an immense force. It’s listing at a forty-five-degree angle, with the tanks and scaffolding that floated it in the bay stretched out in a crumpled ruin of twisted steel and concrete. People are crawling over the wreckage like ants, moving through the wrecked structure and emerging with papers or scraps of technology. Shamrock and I stand there in silence, watching as a helicopter descends and drops a line onto the roof. Workers attach the line to something out of sight, and the helicopter takes off again, a missile suspended beneath it.

“I never would have imagined such a sight could exist…” Shamrock murmurs, staring out over the ruined city.

“I know what you mean. This place is insane. Normally it looks so… backward, but then stuff like this comes along.”

I hear the slightest bit of movement, and see Shamrock looking at me with confusion on her face.

“Backward? I’m so lost I can barely understand half of what I’ve seen.”

I sigh, leaning myself up against a broken air conditioning unit.

“Sit down. I’ve got something to take the edge off.”

I set the bag down beside me, unzipping it and pulling out a glass bottle of whisky. I pop the lid off, taking a sip for myself, and hand it over to Shamrock as she sits cross-legged on the roof next to me. She stares at the bottle in confusion, taking the tiniest of sips. Immediately she starts to sputter and gag, and I reach over to snatch the bottle from her hand before she can spill any of it. I wait for her to finish coughing, and give her my best grin.

“Not used to alcohol?”

She grimaces, holding her fist up to her mouth while she clears her throat.

“I wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol back…”

That brings her back to some old memories, and she falls uncomfortably silent as she starts to dwell on the past.

“No shit! We’re popping a cherry!”

She starts to sputter again, wide-eyed as she stares at me in shock. I leer back at her, but inside I’m glad that it stopped her dwelling on what must be unpleasant memories. She’ll talk, if and when she’s ready for it.

“That was vile.”

I lean back, resting my arm on the AC unit like it’s the back of a sofa.

“I’m a vile person. It’s part of my charm.”

She frowns at me, but it’s a little softer than before. Like I said, part of my charm. I’m not going to ply her with another drink, not if I want to get her to relax, so I reach in and pull out a mixer, passing the fizzy brown bottle over to her.

“More alcohol?”

“Nah. It’s a soft drink. All the booze I’ve brought is hard liquor, on account of my dietary limits, and that’s not the sort of stuff you want for a first drink. If you want, I’ll pour you a pint when we’re back at the Palanquin.”

She takes the cap off, and sips nervously at the drink. She seems surprised by the sweetness of it, or maybe it’s the fizz, and I get a bit of a clearer picture of her. There doesn’t seem to have been much room in her life for fun. Poor girl.

“Let me guess. You’ve not had that before either?”

She smiles a little at my black humor.

“No. I’ve seen fizzy drinks before, but we weren’t allowed to have them. It’s immoral.”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of immorality. It tastes nice, doesn’t it?”

She looks a little guilty, like a kid caught stealing from a pick and mix, but she smiles.

“There’s nothing wrong with cutting loose every now and then.” I pause, choosing my words carefully. “The boss likes us to be professional on the job, and she’ll push you hard during training, but our own time is our own time. Nobody will mind if you let your hair down a little. I certainly wouldn’t.”

She reaches back and touches her ponytail, as if she’d forgotten it was there.

“That’s not how I’ve lived my life. I’ve been disciplined, controlled, for as long as I can remember. It’s who I am.”

“And how much of that is you? How much of that is what the people around you did to you?”

She grimaces again, looking down at the roof. For a second, I think I might have gone too far, but then she looks back up at me.

“I don’t know. Not much. Sometimes I wonder about the person I’d be, if none of this had happened, but I just can’t picture it. I don’t know who I am, beneath it all.”

She looks so sad right now, hunched over on the rooftop as she takes a comforting sip from her bottle of coke. I can’t look at her, not like this, so my eyes drift over the shattered remains of the city.

“Do you know what this place is?”

There’s no answer, but I wasn’t expecting one.

“It’s a second chance at life. A chance to try again; to do it better this time, without any of the mistakes we made before. I miss the people I left behind. There’s nothing I want more than to get back, and apologize for what I put them through, but I know that’s impossible.”

Not unless I can find whoever put me here. Not unless I can rip off their fucking fingers one by one until they give up all their secrets, and hand me the keys to my way back home. Someone out there can travel between worlds, and that means I might be able to as well.

“Instead I’m stuck here, with a group of people who care about me. I care about them right back, and I’m not going to hide away from them in my shell. I can be a better person, a better friend, and so can you. Not many people get this chance.”

Shamrock mutters under her breath, before reaching back to undo her ponytail, her long flowing hair settling on her shoulders like liquid fire. She looks up at me, defiance on her face, and gestures for my bottle.

“Attagirl,” I say, handing back the bottle of whisky. She stares at it for a few moments, building up her courage, before throwing the bottle back and taking a much larger sip than before. Immediately, she descends back into a frenzy of coughs, but it’s the thought that counts. It’s an act of defiance, from a girl I’d begun to think was never going to come out of her shell.

“That’s foul!” She cries, and I can’t help myself from laughing.

“It is, isn’t it? It’s foul and smokey, with a kick like a mule. Probably why I like it so much. Give it a few more drinks, and you’ll like it too.”

“No thanks. I think I’ll act out in a more dignified way. Novels, art, music, things like that.”

“Ooh,” I smirk sarcastically, “lady’s got airs and graces, does she? You should talk to Gregor. He’s big into that sappy refined culture shit. Probably got a few books you can borrow, and Emily’s the gold standard for music around here, even if her tastes are old-fashioned by my standards.”

She smiles at me, and I can see her working the idea over in her head. Good. Hopefully it’ll help her open up to the rest of the crew.

“Maybe, but the night’s still young. Isn’t that what people say? So, what’s next Sonnie?”

I scratch at the bone beneath my mouth in thought, looking up over the city before my eyes settle on the glowing aura of light around the wrecked rig. I stand up, polish off the rest of my bottle before tossing it aside, and sling the bag of drinks back over my shoulder.

“We’re going to be a little nosy.”


	61. Aftershock: 9.04

I think someone died here. This whole city is fucked, but there are places where I can begin to get an idea of just what was going on; little hints in the terrain that show the aftereffects of impossibly strong forces. The end of this row of buildings is gone, crushed into rubble, but there’s something about the shape that makes me thing a person hit here, not a projectile. It’s a sloping crater, with a recessed cauldron where someone sank into the rubble. There’s no sign of any other movement; no final struggle, or great leap back into the fight. Someone got battered into these buildings like a mortar shell, and they didn’t get back up.

Shamrock is light enough to simply stroll down the slope of debris and masonry, skipping effortlessly down the unstable surface with her eyes unconsciously scanning her surroundings. From the look of things, she’d be able to fight just as well on this mess of rubble as she would on level ground. She might be more maneuverable than me, in certain circumstances. I’m nowhere near as graceful in my descent, but that’s to be expected. I slide down the rubble, leaving behind a deep furrow from my claws and my talons, my own mark on the city. Shamrock has the good sense not to laugh at me, instead simply waiting patently at the bottom while I find my footing.

With the light of the salvage site well hidden behind the buildings, it’s almost pitch dark on the streets. My eyes start to adjust automatically, an adaptation designed to minutely compensate for the lighting in any arena. It’s nowhere near commercial bitek night-vision, but it’s good enough to see by. If Shamrock is having any difficulty seeing, then she’s not showing it. Both of us are keeping out eyes on the surrounding buildings, and I’m struck by just how different the city, any city, looks without streetlights.

That brings my eyes upwards, and I see more stars than I’ve ever seen before. I never really looked up back in Britain; the Predators were never the sort to leave the city, and the ambient light pollution never left enough room to see much by. The near-constant heat-shimmer hovering over everything didn’t help either. But there’s no heat shimmer here, no unnatural light to cloud the sky, and it’s made everything much clearer. I know I should be scanning the surrounding buildings, that I can’t let myself become complacent, but I just can’t keep my eyes off that endless expanse of gleaming pinpricks. It’s not my sky, of course. There are no orbitals or space elevators or the white dots of cargo ships as they slowly crawl their way across the heavens, to and from the Carlisle Space Elevator, or the one in Bruges.

This sky is pure, unsullied. It might just be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

The sound of stone scraping on stone brings me back down to earth, as Shamrock moves. She unslings her shotgun from her back, bringing it up to her shoulder in a single graceful movement. She scans the buildings, and I add my eyes to the hunt. I spot three shapes silhouetted inside the frontage of an old corner shop, three figures hunched over and trembling. I reach out to gently push Shamrock’s barrel down, even as I let out a quiet snarl at the people, who flee in panic.

Something passes across Shamrock’s face, as her stony façade breaks down and she starts to move towards the group even as they flee, her arm outstretched. I rest my hand on her shoulder, holding her back.

“Don’t bother. They’re terrified of us, and there’s nothing you can do to change that.”

“But I haven’t done anything to them?”

She sounds uncertain, as she deals with the strange concept.

“I know, but we’re capes. To them, we might as well be gods. They’re never going to accept you, to open up to you. Best you can hope for is awe, and that’s little better than fear.”

“That doesn’t sit well with me,” she responds, holding her shotgun by the barrel with her left hand rather than slinging it back over her shoulder.

“It shouldn’t. It’s just the truth. Not the truth in the sense that we’re actually better than them, just the truth that they think that way.”

The street ahead is flooded, so I start to look for a way up onto the rooftops. There’s no fire escape this time, so I get Shamrock to hop onto my back while I climb up the buildings. She barely weighs anything at all.

“It’s not their fault, not really. They’ve had it hammered into their heads from birth that there are people out here who are better than them; people who are faster, stronger, cleverer than they will ever be. It means they never bother to try. They just lie back and take it, while the world goes to shit around them.”

She clambers up over my shoulders and onto the roof, waiting while I pull myself up over the ledge. There’s something in her expression.

“You’re a real cynic, aren’t you?”

I snort, turning my head to look at the ruined oil rig, still crawling with government salvagers. The air around it seems almost misty in the floodlights, a heat-haze without the heat. I look behind me, and see long shadows stretching out behind me and Shamrock. She’s still looking at me.

“I guess so. I’ve seen a lot of shit in my short time, and it makes it hard to think the best of people. It’s easier with the Crew. I was right fucked when I found them, and that meant I was a lot more accepting.”

We move closer to the light, ducking once onto the roof as a convoy of trucks roll past, escorted by armed vehicles that look military, but have PRT branding on them. Once they’re gone, we get back up and keep moving. I don’t really have a plan here; I just want to see how close we can get for the hell of it. Maybe it’s the whisky talking, or maybe I’m just an impulsive bitch.

Something catches my eye, the glint of light on metal, and a wild grin spreads across my face as I turn to Shamrock.

“Put your gun away. There’s someone here I want to talk to, and I’m not interested in spooking him.”

She seems hesitant for a moment, before putting her shotgun back onto her back. I step up to the corner of the building, looking over at the gleaming figure and his diminutive companion as they spot me. Must be a magnificent sight, with me silhouetted against the night’s sky, and Shamrock’s even shapelier silhouette next to me. I put my right foot on the raised lip of the building in a classic cape pose, and shout across the road.

“Oi! You magnificent metal malchick! The fuck you doing here?”

That sends everyone into a bit of a panic. Shouts come up from the salvage site, and space warps in that familiar eye-watering way around the two capes, no less nauseous while I’m still a little sober. I can’t help but picture unseen snipers training rifles in my silhouette, and I feel a flash of panic before stamping it down. This isn’t back home; they have their own rules here. Instead, I drop off the side of the building and drive my claws into the brickwork to slow my descent, carving a deep furrow down the wall before landing on the mercifully dry ground. Shamrock follows me, sliding down a drainpipe, as Weld and the little one, Vista I think, arrive in a vomit-inducing whirl of distorted space.

I sit myself down on the bonnet of an abandoned car, which creaks and buckles under my weight, and spread my arms wide in greeting. Shamrock stands awkwardly off to my side, her hand brushing unconsciously against her holstered pistol. The two heroes stop a short distance away, with Vista scowling while Weld just seems confused.

“Long time no see, Weld. What brings you to this shithole?”

He seems a little taken aback, his face passing through confusion and into a sort of nervous smile.

“Khanivore. Mind toning down the language a little?” He looks meaningfully to the girl standing next to him, though she doesn’t seem to appreciate it. Her professional demeanor breaks as she turns to scowl at him. It’s more than a little adorable. I can’t help but laugh, as her scowl turns to me. I can’t imagine why she isn’t attacking me right now, though her power doesn’t really seem suited for direct combat.

I laugh, looking around at the ruined city and up at the glowing white sky.

“This is why I like you, Weld. Whole world’s gone to Hell in a handbasket, and you’re worried about me corrupting the supercop with foul language. But where are my manners?”

I turn back to look at Shamrock, who’s still standing warily off to my side.

“Shamrock, meet Weld and Vista. Weld and I go way back, while Vista is the second strongest little girl in the city.”

From the scowl she gives me, it’s clear that she’s not happy with part of that statement.

“Chin up, kisa. You’ve got a nice power, but you’re no Labyrinth.”

That doesn’t seem to help, so I cut my losses before I can make things worse.

“Weld, Vista, this is Shamrock. She’s a new hire, so I figured I’d take her out for a night on the town.”

“You’re not here on a job?” Weld replies, his stance loosening a little.

“What’s in the bag?” Vista demands, almost interrupting the older teen. I give her my best smile, teeth and all.

“Booze. I’d offer you some, but you’re a little too young for that sort of thing.”

“So you’re not here on a job?” Weld asks, the last hints of concern fading from his face.

“Nah. Just a chance to get away and have a few drinks. Saw your big Christmas tree back there, and figured I’d get myself a closer look. I’m here because I’m basically a magpie, but why are you here? We’re a little far from Boston.”

“I’ve been assigned here,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m taking over as head of the Wards.”

I grin, genuinely happy for him.

“Good for you! Glad to see you’re moving up in the world.”

He smiles a little, but there’s an undercurrent of sorrow to it. Vista’s not bothering to smile, and that’s when it hits me. There’s a reason they shipped in an out of town cape to take over the team.

“Were you here?” he asks, and I know exactly what he’s talking about.

“No.” I shift uneasily on the car, cracking the windshield a little. “We were on a job, in Phoenix. Came back a couple of days ago to find the whole world had gone to hell.”

“You could have fought,” Vista snaps at me, “the Phoenix Protectorate would have teleported you in with everyone else.”

Her look is judgmental, accusing, but I can’t help but snort.

“And do what? Look _around_ you, for fuck sake. What would any of us do against _this_? The only one who _might_ stand a chance would be E- would be Labyrinth, and there’s no way I’d let a kid anywhere near this, even if the boss okayed it.”

“Mercenaries…” she spits out, like it’s an insult.

“Yeah, kid. We’re mercenaries. And yet, as far as I’m concerned, the only difference between you and us is that we get to pick what jobs we take. I’ve never been one for causes.”

“I can’t imagine not going…” Weld begins, looking round at the devastation. “I can make a difference, and I’d feel guilty if I didn’t at least try to help out.”

I smile at him as I look him up and down; a teenage figure, sculped perfectly out of metal, with traces of silver sculpting muscle and bone. There’s a bit of rebar that’s slowly being absorbed into his torso, but I’ve no idea how it got there.

“That’s why I like you, Weld. You’re a real classic hero, and it warms my cynical hearts”

He smiles back, rubbing the back of his neck. There’s no screech of metal on metal, just an eerily silent movement.

“I was wondering why you weren’t more bitter. We didn’t exactly part on great terms.”

I chuckle to myself, turning back to look at Shamrock. This is quite the story, and she probably ought to hear it. Can’t have her jumping ship to the Protectorate, after all.

“The Protectorate doesn’t think I’m human. Means that when I got arrested up in Canada, they skipped all that nonsense about ‘rights’ and ‘trials’ and the like, and just went straight to shipping me off to a menagerie. Weld was the only one there who treated me like a person.”

I look back at him, taking in the sheepish expression on his face and the slight confusion that’s breaking through the forced professionalism of his pint-sized pal.

“You’re hard to hate. Not worth the effort, in the end.”

“I’m glad you think so highly of me. What happened to you… it’s not right. Even if you were made by Blasto, you don’t deserve that.”

“Now, to be fair,” I lean forward a little, like I’m sharing a deep secret, “I never said I was made by Blasto. Who’s to say that I’m not some mutated human, or that there isn’t a little bit of human stitched in here somewhere?”

Pint size stiffens, shifting her stance like she’s about to go for me. Weld just looks at me curiously, even as the midget speaks.

“You’re saying you were made by Bonesaw? Lab Rat?”

“Sure,” I reply, having absolutely no idea who she’s talking about, “that works. Whatever fits. My point is that ‘human’ is a hell of a broad term.” I turn to Weld, looking him dead in the eyes. “I could be more human than _you_. Is that your natural shape, or something you have to maintain? Is being human defined by biological life, because you’re metal through and through. I’ve got flesh, muscle and bone. I bleed, I eat, I feel. Do you?”

I let the silence hang in the air for a moment, watching the guilt spread across Weld’s face.

“I don’t mean to give you an existential crisis or nothing. Like I said, I like you. I’m just proving a point. None of us can help the hand we’ve been dealt.”

Weld doesn’t know hot to respond to that, and the mood is now well and truly dead. Vista grabs his attention, putting herself between him and us.

“We should get back to the perimeter. We’ve wasted enough time here.”

I lift myself up from the car, ignoring the way the tortured metal screeches and groans, and lift my bag of drinks back onto my shoulder.

“We’ll be off, then. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your job. Good seeing you, Weld.”

He nods at me, stretching out his hand.

“You too, Khanivore.”

I dwarf his hand with my own, but he’s strong enough to give a good shake regardless.

“It’s Sonnie when I’m off the job. Not like I’ve got a secret identity to keep.”

He smirks, before disappearing in a whirl of distorted space. I turn away from the glowing lights of the salvage operation, not wanting to push my luck any more than I already have, and stroll back into the night with Shamrock at my side, a thousand questions doubtless burning at her lips. She waits until we’re out of sight of the PRT, wading through ankle-deep water down an abandoned commercial street.

“Who were they? The constabulary?”

I fix her with a questioning stare.

“You really didn’t do much research when you first got here…”

“And where should I have looked?” She snaps back at me. It’s a good sign. “Everything I need to know is already common knowledge, so I can’t exactly look it up in a library without drawing attention.”

“What about the internet?”

“The what?”

I stop dead in my tracks, dumbstruck by just how much distance there is between us.

“You don’t… Never mind. We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it.”

I shake the confusion out of my head, forcing myself to carry on down the street. She might as well have turned my whole world upside down. Again.

“Those two were part of the Protectorate. They’re basically superpowered cops that the normal cops call in to deal with other capes. It’s a decent gig, I guess, but it seems a little controlling. Weld was in Boston when I last saw him. He seemed to like it there, and he talked about the Director like the guy was his father. But it looks like the organization needs him here, so he’s had to up sticks and move up north, damn what he has to say about it.”

Shamrock idly kicks a fallen brick out of her way, her head hunched over as she scowls into the ground. Seems I’ve struck a nerve.

“Poor kid. There’s nothing worse than losing control of your future.”

Spoken from experience, it seems.

It’s getting much later now, but there’s no change from when the night began. There’s no crowded pubs or clubs to fill and empty, no late-night workers commuting back home after a long day. Society shut down with the electricity, and everyone’s back to waking with the sun and sleeping when it sets. Everyone who isn’t too tough to give a shit. We pass along a street filled with old restaurants with menus still displayed in the windows. Someone’s gone down one side of the street, boarding up a lot of the windows with plywood boards, but the job’s not yet done. No doubt they’ll be back tomorrow; it’s not like there’s anything else for them to do.

I hear something on the next street, a low hum right at the edge of my hearing. It pules in waves, coming from different directions as its source moves about. We’re being followed. I look around the street, taking in old department stores and dozens of smaller shops. All abandoned, and all empty. Except for one.

There’s a silhouette in a rotten doorway, only visible by the reflection of the moon off the water at her feet. Shamrock sees her too, and levels her shotgun once more. The figure just stands there, watching us, and I rack my brains trying to figure out where I’ve seen her before. Then it clicks.

“Head on back. I’m going to stay out here for a little while.”

Shamrock looks at me uncertainly, keeping both me and the silhouette in her field of view. Eventually, hesitantly, she starts to move, though not before asking me one last question.

“Who is she?”

I keep my eyes focused on the doorway, and slowly start to creep forward.

“A ghost.”


	62. Aftershock - 9.05

I hear Shamrock’s footsteps disappearing behind me, splashing through the water before being replaced by the clack of boots on concrete as she steps out of the flooded street. I pay her no mind, instead looking into the shadows of the old shop, at the woman just barely lit by the rippling light cast by the moon’s reflection. I step forwards slowly, leaving a gentle wake through the flooded street, and she steps out to meet me.

She’s lit from above now, the light of the moon mingling with the wavy reflections rising off the surface of the almost-still water. She’s dressed in tattered jeans and a sports bra, her bare skin marked by a web of scar tissue. There’s a belt resting loosely on her hips, with bone fetishes and metal runes hanging from chains so that they bounce against her jeans as she walks. Her blonde buzz cut has been completely shaven off, and she’s dropped her cage-like mask entirely since I last saw her. In spire of all her scars and her vicious appearance, she moves with a grace similar to Shamrock’s. She’s a combat Thinker.

We both stop in the middle of the street, with six meters of water in between us, as the wake of my footsteps flows forward and subsumes her own. If she’s at all put out by the water that rises to her calf, then she doesn’t show it. Her boots are almost knee high, and they’re laced tight against the brackish water. She reaches down to her belt, unhooking the same voice box she had the last time I saw her, and brings it up to the jagged wound in her neck. I know scars, and it looks like someone tried to cut her throat a very long time ago.

“Heard you were back in town.”

Her voice is artificial, but the machine is good enough to bring through some of her tone. If she was from where I’m from, then she could have just had a new larynx put in. She could have gotten rid of all her scars too. I can understand why she hasn’t.

“I’m not great at hiding.”

My own voice box is crisp and sharp, easily the equal of the speaker I had back home. It runs off the same tech, technology well in advance of anything they have in this world. I could have gotten rid of my own scars with an afternoon visit to a clinic, or I could have had Ivrina whip me up a new batch of skin. She offered, once the shock of my new body had worn off and she pulled my old carcass out of cold storage to see if she could fix it up.

She couldn’t get my brain back in that head, not safely, but she did offer to fix it up, to remove all the damage those cunts back on the estate had done to it. I told her not to. I told her to only do the necessary repairs, to leave my body as close to the state she found it in as she could. Like it or not, those scars defined who I was. I even added my own, once I was able to persuade her to let me out of the tank to have a closer look. I took my new claws, and my new strength, and raked them across my old face, carving deep diagonal slashes that started to weep the orange suspension plasma Ivrina had seeped into my old circulatory system. Those scars defined who I would be, in the months to come.

Cricket lets out a low breath from her throat, one that might have been a laugh.

“No, you aren’t.”

Her scars are her history; every wound she’s ever suffered chipping away at who she was as it carves her into something new. She’s covered in lessons from head to toe, the defining moments in her life that shaped her into who she is today. Khanivore is too valuable to let scar, but I remember each injury, each near-death experience. It used to be all I could remember; all I had left to live for.

“I heard you were made by Blasto,” Cricket continues, idly tossing one of her blades into the air over and over, catching it on the handle every time. They’re strange weapons, looking like small handheld sickles, with scythe-like blades as long as her forearm, and are obviously designed to hook onto a target as she moves past them. It’s a weapon that relies on speed and careful maneuvering rather than brute force.

“I heard you were grown in a tube, and that you were never really human. But that’s not what you told Hookwolf. Eighteen fights, to the death. Which was the lie?”

I grin, just a little, and look her dead in the eyes.

“I let the Protectorate _believe_ what they wanted to believe. I told you the truth.”

A smile spreads across Cricket’s face, stretching her scars unnaturally. It seems she doesn’t smile often.

“I thought as much. I saw it in your eyes. You’re a warrior.”

I take a half step forwards, my paw sloshing through the water, but Cricket doesn’t react.

“What’s this about, Cricket? If you’re here to hit on me I’d rather you just came out and said it.”

That puts a scowl on her face, and she moves a little closer to me.

“This isn’t the time for jokes,” she snaps at me through her voice box, and I take another look at her. There’s something in her eyes; a haggard desperation mingling with conviction.

“No, I suppose it isn’t. I see you’ve ditched the mask.”

She brings up her left hand, the one not currently holding a blade, up to her face, and runs it across her scars. Her mask never covered that much of her face, but I’m so used to this cape shit by now that its absence is a little unsettling.

“There was no point in keeping it. My identity was revealed with the rest of the Empire, but I haven’t been Melody Jurist in a long time. It’s liberating, not having to hide myself behind a mask.”

I’m no stranger to changing names. I might be Sonnie now, Khanivore might be the face I put on when we’re on a job, but it wasn’t always like that. Before I got here, Sonnie was the mask, and Khanivore was me. I was only ever alive when I was Khanivore, and everything else was just a pretense I put on for the sake of the others. Even before the estate, Sonnie was just another attempt to reinvent myself. I wonder when Sonnie stopped being the mask I put on to hide Samantha Lo? There wasn’t any defining moment, just a mask that became more familiar to me than my own face.

“It still doesn’t feel real…” Cricket’s words bring me back to my senses, and I look up at her as she continues, her eyes downcast as she stared at the reflection of the moon on her blade.

“We’re in charge now. Hookwolf is. We reformed the Empire in our own image. We got rid of Purity and her broken followers, who try to pretend they’re anything other than warriors. We got rid of the people who offered us money without ever risking themselves, all so they can pat themselves on the back and pretend they’re _fighting_ for the cause. We got rid of those who answer to foreign masters, and anyone else who wasn’t prepared to live truthfully. Fenrir’s Chosen is a society of _warriors_.”

“But it’s still not enough.”

I don’t need to make it a question. The answer’s written on her face, just like it used to be written on mine. It’s never enough. That’s the thing with addiction; no matter how many fights I threw myself into, no matter how many times Jacob, Karran, Wes and Ivrina almost watched me gutted and torn to shreds for a few thousand euros, it was never enough. I kept going down into that pit, kept looking for more and more thrills, any way to feel alive. But I’m not that person anymore. I got out. It looks like Cricket hasn’t.

“It’s not. None of it _feels_ real, except for when we’re fighting the Pure, or the Protectorate, and, even then, there’s _something_ missing. They pull their punches, and so do I, but you?”

She unhooks her second blade from her belt, idly moving it slowly in her hand until it gleams with reflected light. The rest of her outfit might be half-tattered, and her skin might be covered in scar tissue, but her weapons are pristine, and glisten in the moonlight.

“Eighteen straight fights. To the death. That’s what you ‘told’ us. You’ve found a voice since then, but you’ve also killed. I know you killed in Ohio. I know you killed during the bombings. There’s probably more I’ve missed.”

She adjusts her stance, dropping a little as her eyes narrow with wariness even as they seem to shine with anticipation. It’s a manic look, but there’s nothing manic in her stance.

“Maybe it’ll feel real, if it’s you.”

She tosses her voice box aside, onto the rusting carcass of a car that’s well clear of the waterline. It’s a statement of intent, a declaration that there’s no more room for words, that this will be decided by violence from now on. Part of me wants to call out to her, to try and get her to turn back, but I know it’s useless to try. I don’t know Cricket, so why does it hurt so much to see her go down this path? I shouldn’t care what happens to her, but part of me can’t help but think of this as a tragedy.

I reach up to my throat and pull Cranial’s voice box off my skin, tossing it next to Cricket’s on the rusted car. That’s my declaration. I know there’s nothing I can do to stop her, and I’m acknowledging that defeat.

I’m moving before it hits the car, pushing forwards with my arms and legs, my talons and my claws, kicking up an immense spray of water as I spring forwards, swinging out with my right arm to slice her gut to ribbons, a debilitating blow that would let me put a tendril through her skull and end this in an instant. But it doesn’t connect. Instead, Cricket springs back, sending up her own smaller jet of water, and half-jumps, half-rolls out of the path of my sweeping claws, the scythe in her left hand skittering along the armored bone of my claws, before being carried back by her momentum.

I don’t follow through, instead watching as she leaps back, and the water from my charge splashes down like rain in front of me. She starts to slowly circle me, like I used to do when I was posturing before the match, maintaining the appearance of any other fighter while silently looking for weak points that I could strike. Sounds start to reverberate around the street, a keening wail that has the water vibrating ever so slightly around Cricket. I can’t tell what purpose it serves, and that makes it dangerous.

Cricket charges, her body low to the surface of the water, and I curl my claw into a fist as I try to stop her, only to have her fling herself forwards and use the shin-deep water to carry herself under me, carving a deep furrow into my ankle as she passes. On anyone else, that blow would have crippled them. She cut my hamstring, and thick red blood starts to pour out into the water, but I just shut off the bleeding and switch to my secondary strings.

Her first strike was like a pit fighter; if it’d hadn’t hit the exoskeleton, then it would have carved a long furrow along my arm, a visible line of red that serves no purpose other than to excite the crowd. Her second was more serious, designed to cripple me. She’s getting her wish, becoming more ‘real.’ With each move she makes, she’s slowly getting rid of the pit fighter she used to be, and becoming the killer she so desperately aspires to become.

She darts in again, and I’m put on the defensive. She seems to know where each strike is going to come from, no matter how I twist and turn, no matter how much I alternate between my claws, talons and tail. I still haven’t split my tail, I doubt that more limbs will help right now, and the best I can manage is a nick on her thigh as she ducks underneath a swing. It rips some of the fetishes from her belt, tears through her jeans and starts to send blood pouring down her legs, but nothing concrete.

Her blood is thinner than mine.

I try again, turning on my heel to fling my tail over my shoulder in a whip-like arc. It’s not a natural movement, and the segmented plates that run along its length start to dig into my flesh, but it almost manages to bisect Cricket, instead slicing through her left shoulder as she leaps out of the way. She grits her teeth in pain, as her left arm drops limp and one sickle falls from her grip into the water, but she doesn’t scream, and she doesn’t fall. She just comes in for another strike, flinging the paralyzed limb in front of her as a defense.

The move is near suicidal, and my claws are already moving to slice her throat to ribbons, when the omnipresent sound turns vicious, a sharp stab of nausea and pain that floods my head. My mouth opens wide in a scream, and Cricket drives her scythe into the stretched pink membrane of my cheek, slicing down the length of my jaw before pulling her scythe out at the last second, as I reflexively clamp down with my teeth. I flail aimlessly for a moment splaying out my tendrils to fill the air with slicing claws and blades. I heave, but there’s nothing to throw up, as I feel one of my tendrils catch on flesh for the slightest instant.

It’s not enough, and I’m driven to my knees as Cricket darts in with a thousand cuts that start to sever tendons and muscles. I can feel my mobility being slowly chipped away, just like I used to carve away at larger opponents in the ring. I can barely think with Cricket’s power pounding through my head, and I can see the water shaking with its force. That’s when it hits me. It’s _sound_.

I reach into myself, pulling on bioware processors to selectively shunt certain arteries. There’s no way to cut off my hearing directly, it’s not like we ever expected to pit Khanivore against sonics, but there are several strategic shunts throughout my body to prevent excessive blood loss, including several that run down the side of my head, right where my auditory organs are. My hearing drops out completely, along with many of the muscles in my neck, and I can suddenly move again; deaf, but immune to her power.

It’s not a sustainable workaround, but it’s the best I can do. With no way to drain the blood in the areas I’ve sealed off, it will eventually start to clot. I just need to finish this, as fast as I can. The moment I spot Cricket going in for another strike, I lash out with my claws at her face, carving a deep furrow across one eye and pulping the other. Blood mixes with retinal fluids as it pours down her face, and she lets out a vicious scream of rage before leaping back on pure animal instinct.

There’s nothing keeping her up but adrenaline now, and yet she still manages to swing in for another blow, carving her sickle into my gut before disappearing behind me. The water is frothing with our movement, stained pink with blood and flecks of gore, but neither of us are yet willing to back down. Her moves are entirely instinctual now, that perfect imperfection that can only come when someone is leaning on their edge; when someone is fighting with the sure conviction that they will die if they don’t win.

She’s acting like she’s not blind at all, ducking around behind me and exploiting my deafness for her own benefit. Echolocation. That’s what the hum is about! She doesn’t need to see me if she can just bounce her sonar off me and get a picture-fucking-perfect image! I snarl soundlessly at the revelation, deaf to my own cries, as Cricket wedges her sickle in the sensitive band of flesh between my exoskeleton and my skin. It takes her a second to pull the blade out, and I flail madly at her, kicking her back with my foot.

She staggers upright, and I meet her eyeless gaze as she charges in for another attack. I move, but not to block her or duck in for a blow of my own. I stand stock still, and run six different limbs through the water to create a tall spray, enough chaff to overcome her sonar. Slo-mo courses through my veins, a much smaller dose than I’ve used in the past, just barely enough to let me act in the mere second the water stays in the air. A single tendril parts the curtain of rain, blood-flecked water glinting in the moonlight, before sinking deep into Cricket’s gut and emerging from the other side.

I withdraw the tendril, tearing out intestines as I pull it back to me. Cricket stands there for a moment, swaying uncontrollably with an indecipherable expression on her face, before falling back into the water, sending ripples across the rapidly-stilling surface.

I push through her wake as I step over to her, lumbering uncertainly on weakened muscles, and drop to all fours over her, like some grotesque parody of lovers on a bed. I remove the shunts from my arteries, and sound slowly starts to pour back into my senses. There’s no wail now, no sign of Cricket’s power, but there’s still breath in her body. I can hear pained wheezing through her throat, slashed by some ancient fight, and I can see her chest slowly rising and falling.

She looks up at me through vacant eyes, a bleeding and broken thing, and I wait there for a moment, as she seems to struggle to speak. She opens her mouth, pushing out two croaking and painful words past her wrecked throat. She’s speaking to me with her real voice, and I owe it to her to listen.

“Do it.”

I nod, even though she can’t see it, and draw back one of my arms, curling my hand into a fist before driving it down. My knuckles crush the cartilage in her nose without even slowing, cracking bone and pulping her last remaining eye before continuing through, driving her skull into the pavement beneath the water. Blood flows in rivers now, turning the reflection of the moon crimson on the water’s surface, Cricket’s blood mingling with my own in the flooded street.

I bury her as best I can, lifting her out of the water like a fragile infant and carrying her shattered body onto dryer land. I find a shop, a beautiful wood and brick building filled with shelves of literature across two floors, the ornate woodwork inside the building more suited for a bank than a bookshop. It might even have been a bank, in a past life. Fire is harder to come by than kindling, but eventually I’m able to improvise something. I leave her there, knowing that there are no firefighters left to extinguish her funeral pyre.

It feels like I’m leaving myself in there. How many more fights would I have managed before I became just the same as her? Another two, another five? Was I always like that, from the moment I first felt the adrenaline pumping through my veins, the feeling of blood on my new skin as I tore the opponent to shreds? More importantly, when did I change? Was it when I got dumped in that alleyway in Philadelphia, or did it happen over time?

When did I start fighting for something other than the fight itself? When did I start living beyond the pit?

It’s too dark outside the Palanquin for the sentry to see the blood matted against my skin, and he lets me in without a word. My cuts have all clotted over now, so I don’t track blood over the mostly-clean floors, but I still need the tank if I’m ever going to heal from this. That means I need to pass Shamrock.

She’s awake, or she wakes when I enter, half-sitting under her duvet and looking up at me with a concerned expression. There’s no way she doesn’t spot the blood covering my body, but she doesn’t ask any questions. Maybe she should, maybe this is something that needs to be said.

“I don’t care who you were before. It doesn’t matter. Neither of us are the same person we were back then. Maybe we’re better, maybe we’re worse. All that counts is who we are here and now, in this moment.”

She doesn’t reply, but I don’t need to hear a reply. I wasn’t talking to her. I step up to my tank, setting Cranial’s voice box aside. I put another next to it, a primitive metal speaker designed for an entirely different disability. I don’t know if it’s a trophy celebrating who I am now, or a reminder of who I might have become.


	63. Aftershock: 9.06

Healing is never easy.

Healing is, perhaps, the wrong word. It’s too gentle, too kind. It brings to mind images of pretty nurses in a clean hospital, or maybe some spiritualist meditation to make everything properly Zen again. This isn’t that. It’s never been that. It’s been sterile, rather than clean, and dispassionate rather than Zen. Repair is a better word. Ivrina would _repair_ me after each fight, cutting deep into my flesh to switch out damaged organs, chipped bone or skin so badly damaged it can’t simply be melded back together again.

Damage was inevitable, and repair also became inevitable. You can’t pit two creatures against each other and expect to come out unscathed. It’s not like a gunfight, where you might get the drop on the other guy before he can shoot and you might get away uninjured. When you’re going at a Beastie with knives and claws, all that matters is minimizing the damage. You can’t prevent it. It means redirecting blows to the densest parts of your flesh, sacrificing it to keep mobility in your limbs or to find the killing blow. Sometimes, you have to wait for the bastard to run you through from end to end, just so that you can line up a shot at his neck. Afterwards, you’ll clamber out of the arena on the last of your strength, then collapse while Ivrina starts to repair you, and the tank finishes the job.

I’d like to say that Blasto’s tech makes it a little easier, but that feels a little insulting. Blasto’s stuff is undeniably more efficient, with no need for surgery whatsoever, but he also cheated with his power. He didn’t have to spend years at university, honing skills that are well out of my reach, only to throw it all into a passion project. They’re boffins, and the stuff they knew is well beyond me, just like it _should_ be well beyond Blasto. But I can’t complain, not when it’s the only thing keeping me alive.

Blasto’s healing itches, more than anything. It works through enzymes, somehow, which means that it feels like my whole fucking body is on fire, like thousands of ants are crawling through every reopened wound. It makes prolonged sleep impossible, so I spend the night drifting in and out of unconsciousness as my body slowly knits itself back together. Eventually, I give up on sleep entirely, and just flick through the internet whenever I’m cognizant enough to actually make out the words on the screen.

It means I’m already awake when Shamrock gets up at seven. She doesn’t have an alarm set, and there’s no clock in the room, but she throws back her covers at seven on the dot, having seemingly woken up at that very instant. Immediately, she drops to the floor and starts going through a routine of press-ups, sit-ups and aerobics, without looking at me once. Her movements are almost mechanical in their precision, as faint musculature ripples under her skin.

After a while, she slips on a tank top, some socks, and a pair of trainers, grabs a towel from where it’s been drying on the radiator, then walks out the door without a word to me. It’s like she doesn’t even realize I’m here. She comes back from the treadmill and showers at exactly ten minutes before eight, wrapped in a towel and with her clothes balled up in her hand. That’s when she notices me, no doubt looming ominously in front of her in my sci-fi tank.

She just nods to me, and hangs her towel back up on the radiator, changing into her costume. Everyone’s in costume these days, those of us that _have_ costumes. There’s not much point to civilian clothes when none of us can really leave the building to go shopping. It also wouldn’t feel right, like we’d be denying the reality of the situation. So the costumes stay on, even if the masks don’t.

Shamrock spends half an hour cleaning her shotgun and pistol, checking them over carefully before putting them back in their cases. She moves with the same mechanical precision she used when exercising, like her weapons are just another extension of her body. Yet it seems to relax her at the same time; her tense shoulders loosen, and she lets her posture slump a little. I guess there’s comfort in familiarity.

Breakfast in the Palanquin isn’t a regular thing, generally lasting from half eight to half nine as everyone wakes up and sorts themselves out, with Emily responsible for making sure Elle eats her cereal, and brushes her teeth afterwards. Shamrock is one of the first up, breakfasting at exactly half past eight, but over time more and more of the crew pass by my open doorway, and the sounds of gentle conversation starts to creep into my ears, too distant to hear what’s being said.

I can’t join them. I’ve had the necessary eight hours in the tank, but that’s just what I need for normal maintenance. There’s only so much that the tank can achieve, and actually repairing injuries takes a lot longer than just maintaining organs. As sliced up as I am, I’ll be in here until almost midday.

They’ll probably assume that I was out late drinking, and that I just had to push my normal eight hours back a little. I don’t think Shamrock will tell them about whatever she saw, and I don’t think she saw enough to really doss me in, not unless she’s directly asked to. Maybe it’s better that they think I’m just sleeping off a hangover – not that the tank lets me get hungover – than healing up my battered body because I killed someone and burnt their corpse in an abandoned bookshop. Maybe it’s better this way, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

It hurts to hear them talking and laughing, to know that there are smiles on their faces and plates of warm food scattered around the table. It seems like they’re more eager today, though I don’t know if that’s because the Wi-Fi got set up last night or if I’m just making more of this than it’s worth because I’m not there.

It didn’t hurt before; this isn’t the first time I’ve had to ‘sleep in’, so to speak. It never used to hurt with the Predators, but I had my old body to follow them around in. Even then, I was just paying lip service to them, desperately throwing myself into booze and sex to try and convince myself that I wouldn’t be just as happy lurking in the tank while everyone else moved past me. It could never match the sensations of blood on my skin, of my claws tearing through flesh.

It didn’t stop when I arrived here. Sure, it was nice to hang out with the crew, to fawn over Elle or shoot the shit with Newter, but I was still quite happy to shut myself away in the tank for whole days at a time. I barely spoke throughout the entire journey to Arizona, and, when I last met Cricket, I didn’t care one bit about staying in the tank until midday. It was only when I was actually in the room with them that I started to feel a little guilty. There wasn’t even a fucking reason for it! I wasn’t injured; I just decided that I’d rather spend an extra four hours on my fucking pub crawl than spend time with the people who saved my life!

That hurts. More than the jagged holes in my flesh where Cricket hooked her sickles, more than anything that ever happened to me in the pit.

Breakfast gradually comes to an end, and everyone goes about their day. Occasionally, I’ll see one or two of them walk past the doorway, and they’ll sometimes look in at me with a knowing smile on their face, probably trying to share in my amusement at whatever drunken antics they think I got up to last night. I’m stuck here throughout it all, with nothing but guilt running through my head, as my tank, my sanctuary, starts to feel more like a prison. It makes me sick.

Hours pass with agonizing slowness, but eventually the timer ticks down to zero and I flex my muscles experimentally before draining the tank, my graceful exit marred by sheer fucking eagerness as I practically skitter out into the corridor, loping towards the crew room like an eager dog and only barely managing barely managing to slow myself down in time to save my dignity. I sink into the padded sofa, the springs straining and groaning underneath my weight, and just lie there as the clock moves on.

Within half an hour, it’s one o’clock and the crew starts to drizzle in for lunch. I join them, frying up a storm of meat that Melanie had ordered brought in just for me, stored in a cool box amongst a shipment of far more necessary items. My spice rack survived Leviathan and I liberally add all sorts of heat to my heap of chicken thighs, until they’ve been stained a healthy orange by paprika, garam masala, and turmeric, and I can pour in a couple of tins of coconut milk to really round out the curry. I dip a claw in, skewering a piece of chicken, and roll it down my tongue, savoring the intense spices.

The rest of the crew are eating a mismatched assortment of sandwiches, microwave meals, and ration packs in Shamrock’s case. I slide into the conversation like I’d been there all along, and immerse myself back in that contented feeling I get when I’m around them. I even fetch a second bowl, and offer Shamrock some of my curry. To my surprise, she accepts it. Sure, she coughs up worse then when I gave her the whisky, but that’s just because she’s apparently never had spicy food in her entire life. The poor dear.

Faultline speaks while I’m helping Gregor clear up, setting aside Melanie for the stoic professionalism she only usually shows under fire. To my surprise, she doesn’t talk to me.

“Shamrock. I was wondering if you’d be comfortable answering a few questions? I’m sure you have questions of your won that we can answer.”

The Irishwoman, assuming there _is_ an Ireland wherever she’s from, freezes up in the middle of handing her bowl off to me. Her eyes dart over to Faultline, before she leans against the countertop and a wry grin forces itself onto her face.

“I was wondering when you’d ask. Is this the part where you tie me to a chair in the basement?”

Humor is a different defense mechanism to her usual shield of professionalism. It’s probably a good sign, so I edge a little closer to her. I place a comforting hand on her shoulder and, when she doesn’t flinch away from the five razor sharp claws mere centimeters from her neck, I know she’s warmed up to us.

“Only if you’re into that sort of thing, luv. Personally, I’d prefer a comfy sofa and a cup of tea.”

She looks up at me – always an inevitability when you’re as tall as I am – and her grin turns a little more genuine. I might even call it a smile.

“It’s fine. You’ve all been more than kind to me over the past week. If you were with… with _them_ …” – there’s more hate crammed into that world than a woman as young as Shamrock should ever hold in her heart – “then you would have dropped the pretense long before now.”

“Nobody here is ever going to hurt you,” Gregor rumbles from where he’s leaning against the dishwasher, and a chorus of nods spreads around the room. Shamrock smiles again, before sinking into a leather armchair as the rest of us settle down wherever we can. Faultline sits directly opposite her, in between Emily and Elle, and I spot a familiar hunger in her eyes.

“Why don’t you start with your world? Your home?”

Shamrock leans back, closing her eyes and sinking into the armchair.

“Is there any coffee?”

It’s a stalling tactic, but not a malicious one. She’s nervous, and I can’t say I blame her. Gregor brings her a cup and she leans forwards, sipping at it nervously with her eyes downcast.

“I’ll tell you about my ‘world’, but it wasn’t really home.”

She pauses, her mouth hanging open for a few moments as she struggles to find her voice.

“Shite. How do you explain the whole world to someone who’s never even seen it?”

I snort in sympathy.

“You can’t. Just start small, and work your way up.”

She seems a little grateful, taking another sip of coffee.

“I was born in Clonmel, in County Tipperary. I never knew my father. My mother was… she was ‘a woman of ill virtue.’” – I expected bitterness when she said that, but there’s just weary resignation in her eyes – “I was taken away from her when I was six, put in an Industrial School. They’re schools for orphaned, neglected or abandoned children, or those deemed ‘at risk of coming into contact with criminality.’”

She seems detached from it all, like she’s an octogenarian looking back into a distant childhood. It’s not the sort of look I ever thought I’d see on a woman who’s _maybe_ nineteen years old.

“Anyway...” she pulls herself back together, “I did well in mathematics and literacy, well enough to earn myself an apprenticeship with the Temple.” She stops for an instant. “I suppose I should explain that. The Temple is one half of the Magisterium, the largest government on Earth, with the other half being the military. There are a lot of monarchies, more than I’ve seen here, but they don’t hold any real power.”

Fuck. And I thought the Church had too much power on _my_ Earth.

“I was sixteen, at the Temple-School in Dublin, when they took me.” Gregor leans forwards a little, engrossed. “I went to sleep in my dorm room, and woke up in a concrete cell.”

She stops talking, retreating into herself. None of us move. We’re all happy to just let her figure this out on her own.

“She’d done something to me. Changed me… Given me powers. She didn’t realize I had them at first. It took her a while to figure it out. How it all worked.”

“She?” Faultline leans forwards, her fingers steepled.

“The Mother… the Doctor. I think it was her prison, that we were her… her subjects. Certainly, the others seemed deferential to her.”

“How many others were there?”

“I only every interacted with the Doctor and a man whose name I never caught. He had powers, but I don’t think she did. There was also the Custodian, but I never really saw her. She was an invisible force that kept us all in our cells. Sometimes they sent me to other instructors, but they never gave me any names. As for the other subjects… I don’t know. I could only ever see part of the corridor from my cell, but it was full of people. Maybe a hundred, maybe more. I got the feeling that they had many more floors.”

Her eyes dart between me, Gregor and Newter.

“Every other prisoner I could see had been… mutated somehow. They didn’t look human anymore, but they all had the same brand as me.”

“The other end of the chain…” Gregor muses, more to himself than to any of us. “Force powers on random captives, then wipe their memory and deposit them here. On Earth Bet.”

“How did you escape?” Faultline asks, bringing everyone’s attention squarely back to Shamrock.

“They had me training my powers. I had to roll a dice to eat, to take a shower, to get fresh clothes. They were getting me to use my powers actively, and the odds got larger as I got better at it. Eventually, I was doing well enough that they made me an offer. I could work for them, in exchange for a few perks. Better food, exercise equipment, a room rather than a cell. A name.”

“A name?”

Shamrock’s head drops. She wrings her hands nervously.

“Before that I was subject seven-seven-seven. I couldn’t refuse, couldn’t go another day being called by a number. They let me pick it. I picked Shamrock.”

“What was your name before they took you?” Gregor asks with sympathy in his eyes.

There’s a tear in Shamrock’s eyes.

“I don’t want to say… I don’t… I don’t feel like that person any more. I’m someone else. They made me someone else. That’s what the new name was about. A second chance at life, after so long spent as a thing, an object to be poked and prodded. The Mother… She said that they chose names for the role they would play in the organization.”

“Are you sure you want to use a name they made y-”

Faultline starts talking, but I cut her off. This isn’t something she can understand.

“Sometimes you need a clean slate, and you can’t get much cleaner than a new name. One that’s yours, not one that was chosen for you. It’s like I said last night; all that matters is who you are right now.”

“Thanks,” she replies gratefully, idly wiping away a tear as it creeps down her cheek.

“They trained me up after that. Firearms, martial arts, all the skills you’d need of an assassin. Once they thought I was ready, they dumped me in a motel room and told me to kill a man.”

Faultline’s head perks up at that, and she fixes Shamrock with a piercing stare.

“Tallahassee, Florida.”

Shamrock jumps a little, shocked.

“How did you know?”

“A man claimed to have purchased powers from someone named the Dealer. The next day, he’s dead. Murdered by two unknown capes in his motel room.”

Shamrock flinches like she’s been struck, as her eyes dart around the room. I’ve seen this before, after I killed that girl in Ohio. They’ll turn away from her, unless I act first.

“We’ve all got ghosts in our past. Most of us have blood on our hands, in one way or another. But that doesn’t have to define you.”

“I had no choice,” Shamrock snaps back. “I needed to get out, so I botched the execution. Deliberately missed, fatally wounding him rather than killing him outright. Best I could do at that range. The target was a parahuman, and, when he attacked my handler, I was able to escape in the confusion.”

“The purchased powers worked?” Faultline asks, her face a façade of calm. Doesn’t stop me from seeing the eagerness bubbling beneath the surface.

Shamrock nods. “He could throw lightning from his hands.”

“The other end of the chain.” Gregor rumbles. “Testing powers before selling them to whoever will pay.” He smirks at some dark joke. “We are little more than lab rats, but why did they set us loose?”

Shamrock’s voice is quiet, but it cuts through the air like a knife.

“They never told me anything, but that didn’t stop me listening. It didn’t stop me looking for any information I could find. Once, the Doctor stopped opposite my cell, while she was testing the subject opposite me. I caught a glimpse at her clipboard. She was vetting seven-seven-six for something called the Nemesis program.”

“And what is the Nemesis program?” Gregor rumbles.

“It’s a start.” Faultline cuts the conversation short at just the right time; Shamrock is starting to creep back into her shell. “Thank you, Shamrock. I know that can’t have been easy to talk about.”

“Maybe not,” the Irishwoman has a firm look on her face, “but it was necessary.”

What follows is hours in which the Crew bombards Shamrock with questions, fascinated by every aspect of her world. They start to ask me as well, and I come to realize that I’ve not told them half as much as I ought to have done. I can’t fucking believe I never told them that we’d colonized Mars. Shamrock finds my world a little hard to believe, but I must admit I feel the same way about Bet sometimes. These questions help bridge the gap between her and the rest of the Crew, and I find her after dinner in Gregor’s room, pouring over his bookshelves for something interesting.

I smile at the incongruous couple, and promise to tease Gregor mercilessly about it later. After all, it’s not every day you invite a nun into your bedroom. Shamrock skirts past me, a stack of books under her arm and a promise to return them on her lips, but I hang around for a little while as Gregor stands up.

“Something I can help you with?”

I swallow, a useless, unnecessary action born from nerves.

“Yeah. I want to try and figure out a less… lethal way of fighting. Faultline’s given me a few pointers, but there’s only so much I can do on my own and I’d break any human I sparred against. You’re the only other Brute on the team. Any chance you could help me out?”

He smiles at me, slipping off his shirt and tossing it onto his bed. His body is a translucent mass of skin, with visible organs pulsing beneath the surface. Despite his enormous gut, there’s not an inch of fat on him. It’s all oversized organs, or translucent webs of muscle that crisscross his body like spiderwebs.

“Of course. Shall we train on the dance floor?”

I laugh to myself.

“A private dance, eh? Sure your girlfriend won’t mind?”

“My what?”

Oh, this is going to be _fun._


	64. Interlude 9: Rey Andino

I take a deep puff of my cigarette, holding it for an instant in my throat before exhaling a cloud of second-hand smoke, wishing once again that the thinly rolled paper was full of weed rather than tobacco. I kicked the ganja, but that doesn’t mean I don’t miss it. The problem is that it’s running up against my other addiction, and I can’t afford to be anything less than laser focused in my lab. The stakes are a whole lot higher now, and I have much more to lose.

A lit cigarette and a cup of coffee help keep me sharp, especially with how many all-nighters I’ve been pulling.

There’s a polite cough, and a hand snatches the cigarette away. The sergeant looks pointedly at me, before disappearing off up the ladder to dispose of the naked flame. Right… I probably shouldn’t smoke in here…

I’ve managed to figure out what epaulette equates to what rank, but I still don’t really fit in with the whole military culture. My own staff seem to understand that, and have come to adapt to my peculiarities. They all work for me, and beyond that I don’t much care about whatever petty hierarchy they hold amongst their own ranks. The only ones I really remember are those who outrank a colonel, who outrank _me._

To be fair, those ones haven’t been that bad recently. The natural distrust they had for me has faded with time. Now they tend to either leave me in blissful solitude, with only the occasional defense ministry flunky to keep an eye on me, or they’ll invite me out for drinks, and ply my brains about capability gaps they’ve managed to convince themselves that only I can fill. Much better than the hostile suspicion that permeated my first few weeks here.

The Raptors were the turning point. It’s hard to argue over the budget when there’s actually something tangible to show for that money. India’s invincible army of two thousand. It’s half white lie, half propaganda. I mean, there _are_ two thousand Raptors, but only if you include the five hundred assembled units that are undergoing programming, the five hundred slowly stitching themselves together in suspension tanks and the five hundred that are still incubating, spread out across two dozen far smaller vats per unit. There are only five hundred units that are actually combat ready, but that number will increase with time.

All made possible by that smallest glimpse into _her_ biology. It took a while, but I’ve managed to get more out of that cluster of DNA samples and MRI photos than any piece of biomass I’ve ever had access to. I’ve always struggled with complexity and size; it’s why the Woad Giant was such a disappointment. I simply couldn’t grow an organism that large.

Khanivore… She was a little different. She’s more of an ecosystem than an organism, or at least something in between the two. Her organs, and the organs of my raptors, were each grown separately, then spliced together in a suspension tank. It’s factory-floor biology; cheap, uniform and _very_ efficient. Of course, my Raptor’s aren’t anywhere near _her_ level. I did what I could, with the tissue samples I had, but there’s only so much knowledge I could gain from them.

So, I took what I could from her DNA and… streamlined it a little. I suppose it’s the difference between a high-end sports car and a people carrier. The same underlying principles, but one is built for quality while the other favours quantity. The one area in which I fell short of my anticipated standards was in intelligence. I suspect the answer lies in that rogue scrap of human DNA that made its way into the samples, but cloning her brain to get an efficient control module feels a bit like a step too far, even for me.

The Raptors will serve well enough with simpler brains, controlled and guided by electronics wired into their skull in the earliest stages of development. Still, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t aim for better. I flick through the tabs on the console in front of me, checking through dozens of readings before turning to look at my creations myself.

They’re suspended on hooks alongside a narrow gantry that puts me level with their heads and torsos – the most vital parts of the creatures. Ten feet tall – hence the gantry – and more obviously bipedal than the Raptors, they resemble nothing more than a fusion of sinewy red flesh and machinery. The organic components are almost pure muscle, constantly reinvigorating itself through electrified enzymes to give them the stamina of a hundred men.

They have four arms – two almost completely biological ones for brute strength and two more mechanical ones that are partially integrated into their weapons. The weapon itself is apparently a Light Machine Gun – easily the single most inaccurate military-speak I’ve ever heard – capable of tearing through almost anything in its path. I thought about integrating the weapons into the body itself, but having the creatures hold their guns makes maintenance much easier.

The collaborative efforts of six Tinkers went into their construction, but they’re _my_ creations, _my_ design. I’d call them my children if I didn’t know that was sentimental garbage. They exist to serve a purpose and, as their creator, I get to decide what that purpose is. I sculpted their flesh, sure, but there’s a far more important component that makes them truly mine.

I reach up to caress the head of the closest creature, encased entirely in metal armour with a red lens. It leans into my touch, moving entirely of its own volition as it’s mechanical eye whirrs into focus and it meets my own gaze.

People are so afraid of sapience, but it opens up so many options. Give a creature the ability to think, and it can start to apply itself tactically in ways that mere beasts never could. They can field-strip their own weapons, or perform rudimentary surgery and repairs on their broodmates. So, I gave these creatures minds, just as I gave them life. A human-like brain, resting at the centre of their biomass and conditioned through technology so advanced that only one other example of it exists on this Earth. I used my own DNA for it – it seemed fitting.

I reach out, and at the base of my skull a small organ starts to creep into action. I’ll admit, it took me a while to figure out the purpose of this part of Khanivore, and I poured millions of dollars into replicating it. I can feel them clawing at the edge of the mind-link; twelve creatures, baying for blood. They used to say there were no true psychics, save the Simurgh, but now there are thirteen. Fourteen, if things turn out as planned.

I reach out with my mind, parsing through the minds of my creations as easily as I parsed through the readout on the console. Much of the information is the same, but there are some nuances in the balance of hormones and endorphins that can’t yet be detected by mechanical senses. I can feel their own primitive minds withdraw as I superimpose my own. If I wanted, I could directly assume control of a single unit, but doing so would massively reduce its combat effectiveness.

“Sir!”

The shout comes from the sergeant, but I wave him off. I stride back along the gantry, flanked by my creations, and grip tightly onto the railing as the floor falls out beneath my feet. The ground rushes past, miles beneath the flimsy structure of the gantry, and air whips around the hold of the aircraft as all sound is drowned out by the force of the engines. Around me, I feel twelve eager minds press against the clamps and pipes that hold them to the aircraft, as their feet dangle in the open air.

Beneath me is an expanse of farmland and arid scrub, interspersed with brown-painted armoured vehicles and faint white-grey shapes, keeping pace with the tanks on four armoured limbs. There is no infantry to accompany them – it was deemed too risky, especially since the Raptor’s can fill their role quite easily. We pass directly over a flight of armed helicopters, pulling well in advance of the main body of the force, and I offer them a mocking salute as the fields give way to the tightly-packed streets of an ancient city.

I don’t know what it’s called. In all honesty, I was looking at my phone in that part of the briefing. Apparently, it used to be part of Pakistan, until a particularly vicious Parahuman took control of the city and much of the surrounding towns. The local have larger concerns to worry about, so they let it slide so long as he limited himself to cross-border raids. That same indifference to the city means that they won’t stop us – silver lining, I guess.

Parts of the city are already burning from the hour of ceaseless airstrikes and artillery fire that preceded our advance. It warns them that we’re coming, but it also softens them up nicely. No number of airstrikes, however, can prepare them for the sheer targeted fury of twelve Cyclops. A green light flashes overhead, and twelve sets of clamps all release in concert, a wave of flesh falling out into the open sky before the microjets embedded into their torso kick in, adjusting their descent as they weave through the scant bursts of anti-air fire.

The swing doors of the converted bomber close shut, and the green light switches itself off. I walk back along the gantry, past the empty cradles, and feel my Cyclops dodging missile fire through the sky as they plummet down to Earth. There’s a chair in front of the console – utilitarian, and depressingly military, but comfortable enough – and I lean back as I focus my attention on my creations as they dance through the air. One of them is hit by a blast of lightning from a flying cape, systems frying off before being supplanted by the backups as another Cyclops collides with the cape mid-air, gripping tightly onto his chest before ripping his head clean off.

The city hurtles up and the Cyclops turn their microjets downwards at the last second, slowing their descent to the absolute bare minimum necessary for a safe landing. They smash through the roofs of buildings, or crush cars underfoot, before raising their rifles and sprinting through the city streets, firing on any combatants they spot as they start to search the city for high value targets. In this sort of environment, that means capes. Communications relays and fortified positions can all be dealt with using targeted airstrikes, but there’s an unpredictability to capes that makes them a nightmare for conventional military forces.

Four more Capes die in the span of a minute, as well as dozens of whatever militia the warlord could press into service. The man himself is nowhere to be seen, and the element of surprise is rapidly wearing off. My Cyclops start to converge on each other, forming pairs to cover each other’s backs, as their beady red eyes parse through the crowds of people, overlaying sensors scanning for any hint of irregularity.

It’s enough to spot the Stranger creeping through the crowd, invisible to biological eyes but not to the paired cameras, but not enough to stop him slamming the anti-tank mine onto the lead Cyclops, even as its partner cuts him down in a hail of gunfire. The mine doesn’t detonate – it seems the Stranger intended to detonate it remotely – but it does make that unit a liability. Inbuilt triage protocols kick in, and the Cyclops leaves its partner behind to hunt alone. They have a sense of self preservation, but also a need to preserve the lives of their broodmates.

On the other side of the city, four of my Cyclops overwhelm a cape who’s sheltering behind a domed shield with half a dozen other uniformed personnel. They’re not locals. They look like mercenaries, though not from any of the better-know companies. Red Gauntlet has a role in training the Pakistani military, including their Parahuman branch, but they pulled out of the city before the government lost control. The Gauntlet were smart enough to recognize this enterprise was doomed from the start, but this outfit is too stupid or too desperate to realize that. These mercs could have come from anywhere, travelling from warzone to warzone like some sort of depraved circus, only to die at the guns of my creations.

A massive detonation shakes the city and I reach up to tab through the console until it displays a bird’s eye view from a circling surveillance aircraft. Roughly a quarter of the city is now covered by a cloud of dust and sand, and it looks like a whole block’s worth of buildings has decided to take a walk. The Warlord has shown her face. She has a name, but I didn’t pay attention to it. The only thing that matters is what she can do. A landslide moves through the city streets, tearing apart the buildings to add them to its mass before leaving ruins behind as it moves on. I don’t know what happens to the people who get caught in its path, but it can’t be pleasant. Even if they survive, then they’re still trapped in that moving labyrinth.

My Cyclops move as one towards the mountain of ever-growing buildings, as the Warlord scoops up structures like a lint roller. Their advance is relentless, without hesitation or doubt. They can simulate fear, but they don’t need to feel it. The wonders of programmable grey matter.

The Warlord’s militia aren’t so fortunate, too busy trying to flee their master’s power to put up any meaningful defence. The Cyclops charge directly at the shifting structure, before clamouring into and over its twisting corridors. Instantly the mind-link makes itself useful, as their gestalt-memory starts to broadcast real-time information to each unit, allowing them to build up as complete a map as it’s possible to have of the ever-shifting surface. They descend into the warrens, sprinting through corridors worthy of the finest palaces that twist and reform like Escher’s worst nightmares. Pillars rise to block their path, but there’s no intelligence behind the movements. The Warlord can decide where her palace moves, but she has no control over what it does to the structures it absorbs.

The corridors and passageways narrow, as the palace whirls around its heart. It’s faster here, but so are my Cyclops. They leap through the rubble with grace unbecoming of their bulk, pausing to help each other through even as their coordination becomes instant, and they get closer and closer to one entity. I watch it all, occasionally going deeper into the mind-link to add my own view of the satellite feed. It doesn’t help much, but with twelve other minds all doing the same it all builds up.

Soon, one of my creations gains sight of the core – a kaleidoscopic sphere of stained glass that glows with an ever-shifting pattern of light. The others follow, but their combined fire is unable to pierce the shell. Logic patterns run through their mind, as twelve brains set to calculating a solution to their problem. In the end, one of them steps forwards, the anti-tank mine still stuck to his body. Self-preservation is a priority, but so is completing the mission.

The other eleven Cyclops start to sprint out of the palace, while the one that remains brings his arm down on the mine, detonating it. There’s the sound of shattering glass, and a woman’s scream, before the moving palace collapses into a mountain of rubble. I lose two more Cyclops in the collapse, while the remainder lie buried beneath the earth. Trapped, but still functioning. They will keep for however long it takes my Raptors, and the tanks, to clear the rest of the city.

I lean back in my chair, wishing dearly that it was a recliner, and withdraw from the mind-link as the plane circles back towards Indian airspace. I look down the length of the aircraft at the empty cradles, feeling a strange sense of pride welling up in my chest, before being distracted by the ringing of my cell phone. I fumble around for it in the pockets of my uniform, bringing it up to read the name on the screen.

Lauren. Perfect timing, as always.

“Eve,” I speak, joy clear in my voice. “Everything’s coming up roses here. How about on your end?”

“I’ve got good news, sir.” Her voice is full of the same cold efficiency she’s been showing on all her jobs lately. It’s the company she keeps. The ‘sir’ is a fairly recent addition. She only started saying it to spice things up in bed, but she’s taken to it more frequently now. Apparently, it makes me more seem more impressive when she’s conducting clandestine dealings on my behalf.

“He’s agreed to let us use a wing of his compound, and some of his staff.”

My grin turns manic, and I almost leap out of my chair in joy.

“He asked me to deliver a message to you.”

“Well let’s hear it,” I exclaim. “It’s the least I owe him!”

“‘To fight monsters, we must be ruthless. We must use every weapon we can find, or we will lose this fight. In this, our goals align. We will collaborate.’”

“Inspiring stuff,” I say, leaning my arms against the railing of the gantry. “It’s so refreshing to work with fanatics. There’s an honesty to them that you just can’t get anywhere else. Oversee the move yourself. I’ll meet you when I get back to New Delhi.”

I hang up, putting my phone away and fiddling with the buttons on my uniform as I try to close the pocket. Truth be told, this is a godsend. Hiding my more… unique projects from the Ministry of Defence has been rapidly becoming more trouble than it’s worth. At least now it can grow in peace.


	65. Breadcrumbs: 10.01

I pounce, leaping forwards three meters before using my tendrils to launch myself up and over my target, aiming a kick at the back of her head. She ducks and rolls with unnatural grace, without so much as looking at me, before firing her shotgun at point-blank range straight into the back of my kneecaps. It’s a crippling blow, so I back out even though the rock salt didn’t even break my skin. Shamrock grins at me, resting the barrel of her shotgun on her shoulder as she takes a mocking bow.

“This is getting us nowhere,” I snarl. “I can’t tag you, but we both know a real shotgun wouldn’t do jack to me. What do you say we forget the points and just go at each other till we feel like stopping?”

“Trying to wear me out, are you?”

“Well, yeah.” I take a half step forwards, raising all four tendrils in preparation. “I mean, it’s how I’d deal with you in a real fight. You might not be all that durable, but your power compensates for that. In melee, you’re basically a Brute with the amount of shit you can dodge. The trick would be in wearing you out enough that your body can’t keep up with your luck.”

She moves without thinking, rolling to one side even as she raises her shotgun and fires another shot. I move when she moves, barreling forwards with refined brutality, lowering my head and closing my eye to tank her shot. Getting salt in my eye would be… uncomfortable. I’m not using my claws, and I can’t use my fists either. I can sort of curl my hands into a fist, but it’s not what they were designed for and I don’t want to risk stabbing myself with my claws each time I throw a punch.

Instead I curl back the blades at the ends of each tendril, and strike out at Shamrock with a whirling dervish of calloused flesh. Walking on the spikes themselves is impractical, dangerous and inefficient. Khanivore walks on the patch of skin just behind the spikes, keeping the reach of the tendril without placing all that pressure on the tip of a spear. The bone lattice in that limb is designed to curl in in on itself, so it actually feels quite natural to treat my four tendrils like four fists. It’s such an obvious measure that I’m honestly pissed that I didn’t think of it sooner.

Shamrock dodges one fist with ease, the second almost as well, but the third comes within a centimeter of her and the fourth actually scrapes against the edge of her thigh, staggering her a little before her power helps her find her balance again. She recovers quickly, somehow managing to plant her foot on my right arm, leap on top of my back and fire another round of rock salt into the back of my neck, before leaping off a mere millisecond before all four tendrils sweep back.

I caught a glimpse of her face as she used my head as a platform. She was grinning from ear to ear. It’s a pleasant change from the way she was acting a few weeks ago. I think she’s started to see the fun in these little fights, and in all the other drills that Faultline has us doing. It’s a far cry from the timid thing she was a few short weeks ago. Then again, I guess I’m a little different too. The tendril-fists – for want of _any_ better name – were something I’d not have done before, and I’ve been going to Faultline to develop some more non-lethal fighting techniques. She’s been using herself as my test dummy, which displays a level of trust that I’m only just starting to feel I deserve.

In a way, the idea that she’d go that far for me has only motivated me to work harder at it. Which might have been her goal all along, come to think of it.

Shamrock is still ducking and weaving around my flailing limbs, but she’s starting to flag a little, and her smile is slowly falling from her face. Don’t get me wrong, she’s fitter than anyone her age has any right to be, but she’s still only human. I have an operational limit too, but it’s designed for a whole different scale. Eventually she slips up, as her body fails her, and the best her power can manage is to catch a blow on her side, rather than in her gut. My tendril slides uncomfortably past her waist and I take this chance to curl it around her body, lifting her up as she writes in midair.

I pull her close to my face, grinning at her as she beats her fists against the rock-solid limb before giving up and hanging limp, trying to scowl at me past her unconscious smirk. Cheers and applause mingles with jeers and groans, and I look to my left to see half a dozen kids of varying ages sitting with their feet dangling over the edge of the Palanquin’s loading bay, having watched our back alley slugging match with rapt attention. I hold my captive prize up to the sky, while dropping into a deep bow for my audience. They cheer again, and I set Shamrock down.

Our little community has grown over the past few weeks. Not by much, but every now and then a few desperate souls will turn up at our door. They’re all Faultline’s former employees, those few who couldn’t afford to get out of the city, or who have nowhere else to go. There are even a few from the refugee camps, people who feel safer staying in a building full of friendly capes than under the protection of the Brockton Bay Police Department, a department that is rapidly falling apart at the seams now that the National Guard have left the city.

It means the dance floor reverberates with the patter of tiny feet, rather than the pounding tunes of an electro-beat, but it also means we get meals cooked for us, and the rooms above the Palanquin are clean again. Above all else, all these families hanging around the place have made it feel a lot more homely than before. We’ve even seized a few of the surrounding buildings and added them to our perimeter, moving the families out of the increasingly-cramped VIP room. It feels strange to be surrounded by such normal people, people who have been distant from my life ever since I left home, but I can’t say I don’t like it.

Emily and Elle certainly like it, and that’s all that matters in the end.

Shamrock disappears off to the showers, but I’m immediately mobbed by enthusiastic voices until I lower myself enough to let them climb onto my back. After firmly reminding them to stay away from any of my many sharp edges, I take them on a trot up and down the alley, noting the expressions of worry on a couple of idle parents and the screams of joy from my passengers, before ever so gently forcing them off so that I can actually have some free time for myself.

I find Emily in the VIP room, recently restored to its pre-crisis layout, talking animatedly with a couple of teenage girls who came here with their parents, or were working here themselves and thought it would be a safe place for their families. I’ll admit, I didn’t pay attention to who exactly worked at the Palanquin, but neither did Emily. She’s just happy to have someone her age to talk to. Elle is there as well, lying down on the sofa and resting her head on Emily’s lap, while the older girl idly strokes her fingers through her hair. She’s not doing so hot right now, but at least she’s calm.

Their section of the VIP room looks much the same as the rest, but I can see a few other changes that demonstrate that the whole room is under Elle’s control. It’s touching that she considers it safe enough to not need adjusting, even barely-coherent as she is. I give the two girls a short nod, before lumbering past them. It’s been too long since Emily had the chance to have some proper girl talk, and I know I’m a little too punk to be anything other than a passable substitute. I might join in later, if it doesn’t feel too awkward.

I spot Shamrock as I pass our room, fresh from the shower and drying herself off with a fluffy white towel. My eye drifts over my tank, and the inbuilt computer it contains, but I know it’s probably too early in the day to have a message back from Weld. If I ran the Protectorate – and thank fuck I don’t – then I’d have the Wards patrolling almost exclusively during the day, now that they don’t have any schools to go to. He probably won’t get off shift till later.

My relationship with Weld is… weird. I reached out to him on PHO once my ban expired, hoping to ask him if he knows anything about nonlethal combat with nonstandard limbs. He wasn’t very helpful, as he can just reshape his body into something with less spikes, but for some reason we kept talking afterwards. We don’t talk about much really, the way we both keep avoiding anything to do with work is more than a little funny, but I do appreciate our messages. There was a message about the new residents in the Palanquin that had me half-thinking his superiors have been pressuring him to pump me for information, but nothing else ever came of it.

He could also just be honestly concerned about the families living with a gang of vicious supervillains. If there’s anything our conversations have taught me, it’s that Weld is every bit the stand-up guy he seems. Sometimes, in our more honest moments, he’ll express reservations about his ability to lead the Wards. I don’t exactly have much experience to offer him, except what I’ve learned by watching and following Faultline, but I get the feeling he just wants to vent to someone he doesn’t work with, or work for.

I haven’t told Faultline about our chats, and I don’t think he’s told his superiors either, though his account is an official Wards East-North-East one, so it may be monitored anyway. I guess that means my account would be compromised too, but it’s not like anything important ever happens on PHO.

The boss herself is nowhere to be seen. I think she’s out meeting with her local contacts, but she’s been coming and going a lot lately. I guess things are still hectic out there, even if our own little slice of paradise has become wonderfully stable. From what she’s told me, Faultline always kept a small network of informers active in the Bay, just in case any of the powers that be decided to take us out. Since Leviathan, those informers have gone from a convenient safety net to our most vital lifeline and first line of defence.

The city has somehow become even more insane than it was during the bombings, and the Palanquin is an oasis of resources in the middle of a very barren desert. Every few nights there’ll be gunshots from the perimeter as our guards fire over the heads of would-be looters, and us Capes will occasionally patrol the streets to find out if anyone’s decided to set up shop nearby. It’s not gang territory in the traditional sense, but the other organized groups still seem content to leave us alone. They know better than to poke a sleeping dragon.

I push open the door to Newter’s room, the orange-skinned lad sitting on the edge of his bead while he plays some of the rudimentary linear dross that passes for a proper video game in this day and age. It doesn’t even have a VR headset, let alone full-body immersion. Still, he seems to like it.

“Ever think of knocking?” He snaps at me, through his heart isn’t in it. His focus has been almost entirely taken up by the game. “One of these days, you’re going to walk on me doing something really private,” he cautions, breaking from the game long enough to waggle a disapproving finger.

“Yeah. That’s the point. Then I can point and laugh while you get all flustered. So far, you’ve been disappointingly normal.”

In truth, neither of us have much in the way of shame. I don’t think I’ve seen Newter wear anything above the waist for at least a week, while I haven’t worn anything at all since I got here. People wear clothes to enhance their physique, but you can’t enhance perfection.

“So, how’s the two-dimensional entertainment today?”

The screen turns red with simulated blood, and Newter slumps back onto his bed. At first glance it looks normal, but I know that there’s a plastic protector under the duvet cover, and another around the mattress. It’s not enough to really be noticeable, but I can’t help but feel it must affect his headspace even if it saves us on laundry.

“ _Please_ spare me from another talk about how wonderful future video games are. My heart can only take so much jealousy.”

I lean against the door, managing a very impressive shit-eating grin for someone with next to no facial muscles.

“You know, it’s not really the future. VR games exist right now. There are probably people a few miles from here, wearing their taksuit for the real immersive experience. The only thing separating you from them is a couple of dimensions.”

Newter reaches back only to fling a pillow right at my face. I let it hit me as I ooze smugness, only to stagger back into the corridor. Newter’s been sleeping on this fucking thing, and it’s practically sodden with his chemicals. I stagger down the corridor while the psychedelic hair-grease works its way through my pores, barely managing to flop down onto the sofa in the lounge before the colours all start to blur together, and I lose control of my limbs.

I black out for a while, lost in a kaleidoscopic vortex of colours, before the walls start to slowly pull themselves back together, and I drift unsteadily back into consciousness. Faultline is sitting on the sofa opposite me, dressed down in practical but inconspicuous clothing. She must have just got back in from one of her little sorties. There’s a cup of coffee in her hand, but she doesn’t seem to be paying it much attention. I lever myself up into a more comfortable position, while she leans forwards and looks me dead in the eye.

“I have a question for you, Sonnie.”

“Shoot,” I respond, after only a moment’s hesitation.

“These… power brokers. How much would you give, to find them?”

“You’re not talking about cash, are you?”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Money is useful, but solving this mystery will cost more than money. How much would you lose to find the truth?”

I rest my head on the arm of the sofa, closing my eyes for a moment while I think.

“I don’t know. A lot, to be sure, but there’s stuff here that I’d rather not lose at all, if I get the chance. I’m a little different from Gregor or Newter, though. I remember where I came from.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse? You know your home is out there.”

I open my eyes, fixing Faultline with a piercing stare.

“This is my home. There’s nothing for me back in London except regrets. If I did get the chance to go back there, it’d only be to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness from the last family I had. It’s different for the others; they don’t know their past, so it eats at them more. I know it eats at Gregor, and I think Newter has it as well; he’s just better at hiding it.”

“I understand.”

I shift uneasily on my seat.

“This isn’t just idle chatter, is it?”

“No,” Faultline looks down, clutching her mug with both hands. “It isn’t.”

She pauses for a while, and I try not to pressure her.

“One of my contacts in the Merchants told me that Skidmark is distributing what he called ‘powers in a can’. Apparently he has a briefcase filled with vials, and he’s offering them to loyal lieutenants and other gang members who prove themselves. And carved into the surface of this case…”

My hand drifts unconsciously to my sternum, where that stylized U has been branded onto the bone.

“Exactly.”

“How the fuck did they get hold of that?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible that Leviathan interrupted a deal, or killed one of the broker’s agents. Endbringers have always interfered with precogs, perhaps it interfered with whatever safety net they had up. All that matters is the vials are here, in the city.”

“So why not take the case for ourselves?”

“Because our position in the city rests on a knife’s edge. If we attack the Merchants, it’s a declaration that we’re willing to get involved in local politics. We’d face retaliation.”

I stir, shifting to my feet.

“Then we face it. There’s never going to be another opportunity like this, boss. We can hold the Palanquin, or we can leave the city and find another safe haven, but you can’t let this pass us by.”

“You’re right,” Faultline seems to steel herself, “we need to act. I’ll run this by the others, but this is too big to let pass us by. We’ll just have to deal with the consequences when they happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of days ago, I decided to properly map out the remaining structure of this story. I won't claim to have known how this will end when I started, but I've known the general direction of the story since at least the end of arc three, and it's only become clearer in my mind as I go on. The difference now is that the outline has gone from existing solely in my head, to something concrete.
> 
> It makes the end seem both closer and further away. It feels closer because there's no longer a gap in my mind between the narrative I'm writing now, and the final arcs I've laid out. I have a progress bar, of sorts, so I know exactly how far I have already come.
> 
> On the other hand, it feels further away because I can see just how far I still have to go.


	66. Breadcrumbs: 10.02

The Palanquin is an oasis amidst an anarchic wasteland. Literally, in the sense that it’s on a hill above the flooded ruins of the rest of downtown, but also on a far more meaningful level. The people at the Palanquin are safe behind the perimeter I put together, dragging cars from the surrounding blocks and piling them high into makeshift walls, reinforced further by sandbags and makeshift watch posts. They’re fed by daily convoys that wade through the water and debris of the dying city on immense tires, guarded by completely illegal machineguns set on top of the cabs that nobody has yet bothered to try and take off us.

They have safety and all the essentials needed to survive, but they also have so much more than that. They have the internet, a connection to the outside world, and a few luxuries. They have the time to step back, to worry about something other than where the next meal will come from, or which gang currently holds their territory. The rest of the city isn’t so lucky.

There’s a map on the wall of the Palanquin’s main room. The room itself is back on a war footing, like it was during the ABB insurgency. This time there are fewer people, but they all work for Faultline. If we’re about to wade into local politics, we’re going to be damn sure that we come prepared. It means dividing the room in two, keeping half of it set up as a medical triage center, while the other half serves as our war room.

The map shows Brockton Bay, but not the same city as before. The roads on older maps are all wrong: failing to account for flooded streets, collapsed buildings, or the enormous crater-lake in the center of downtown. Our map has been painstakingly gathered by word of mouth, and slowly filled in with notations and cross-hatching indicating which sections are stable enough to drive the trucks through, and which aren’t. It’s a laborious process, and we’ve only been able to cover the areas closest to the Palanquin and our convoy’s routes in and out of the city. None of which helps us at the moment.

What’s more relevant is the coloured territories that almost completely cover the map. There’s no government left, not really. The police sometimes roll through the streets, but only if they get escorted by the PRT. They’re really only there to make the Mayor feel like he actually still holds power in the city. The multicolored map stands as a damning counter to that illusion of power. It shows the lands of the new rulers of Brockton Bay, laid out with borders that shift almost daily.

Fenrir’s Chosen, the Merchants and the Pure, all vying with each other as smaller gangs rise and fall in the no-man’s-land between their territories. The Protectorate, as a law enforcement organization, don’t really hold territory in the traditional sense, but there’s a patch of green on the map around the PRT building and the crashed PHQ, where a perimeter of barricades and checkpoints has been set up to protect their headquarters.

Things had been stable – as stable as it gets in the apocalypse – up till recently, but all hell seems to have broken loose. There’s a fourth power now, though they’re pretending not to be united. Within the span of a few days, the Travelers and the Undersiders have made plays for large swathes of the city that had either been overlooked by the big three, or were seized from them by force. The five major powers aren’t at war quite yet, but it’s only a matter of time before things boil over.

The latest change had come this morning, too soon to be reflected on our map, when a swarm of insects descended on the old Boardwalk borough. Another swathe of territory for the Undersiders, another patch of yellow on the map.

“The Merchants’ territory is unclear at the best of times,” Faultline begins, gesturing to the broad swathe of blue. “They were less than nothing before Leviathan, and it shows in their current structure. Unlike Fenrir’s Chosen, who inherited the linear hierarchy of the Empire, or the Undersiders/Travellers alliance, who operate as a coalition of feudal gang leaders, the Merchants have no centralized leadership. There’s Skidmark’s core of capes, and dozens, if not hundreds, of unpowered gangs that owe fealty to him.”

She pauses, taking in the sight of the six capes spread out around the table. Gregor’s eyes are hard as he stares down the length of the table at her. He’s as close to enthusiastic as he ever gets, and the others seem to sense his mood. Newter’s quiet, though he’s still maintaining his easygoing attitude. Shamrock has her shotgun in her hands, fresh from a crash-course on non-lethal ammunition taught to her by one of our security guards who, in a past life, had worked as riot police in a now-defunct African state. The pistol on her thigh is still loaded with real bullets, as is Faultline’s. She looks calm, but I think that’s just because I can’t see her knuckles whitening beneath the gloves of her black bodysuit.

Emily and Elle are quiet, but Emily at least is clearly aware of just how thick the tension in the room is. They’re both standing on polished marble tiles that have no place in a nightclub, so perhaps Elle’s aware of it too.

“The only time the Merchants actually unite is when the central gang decides to hold an event. According to my source, that’s when Skidmark plans to offer the vials as gifts. It’ll be held at Weymouth Shopping Centre, the closest thing to a headquarters they have, and it’s happening tonight.”

“ _All_ the Merchant’s will be there,” Emily speaks, her words half-statement half-question.

“They will, but it’s the only time we can be sure that the case will be there as well. If it’s genuine, Skidmark won’t want to let it out of his sight and once he’s distributed the powers, he’ll probably destroy the case they’re kept in. Along with the papers inside.”

Faultline fixes Emily with a stern stare, an unshakable wall for her to lean against. I think that’s the reason she decided not to wear her mask for the meeting. Emily and Shamrock _are_ , because they use their masks to hide away from the world. Faultline looks up and down the table, taking in Gregor’s restrained eagerness and the mixed feelings of the rest of her crew, before taking up her mask and closing the armored visor over her face.

“It’s now or never.”

<|°_°|>

The trucks can only get us so far. They’re noisy, and far too noticeable, but they’re the only thing we have that can forge a path through the flooded streets, and it’s much too late for us to walk all the way there. Merchant territory is broadly the north of the city, a lot of old dockyards that were already shit before Leviathan, and have now been made even worse than the several thousand tons of beached vessels that got pushed up and into the old docks by tidal waves. I can see them looming overhead, irregular silhouettes in the evening sky that only barely resemble ships.

Fortunately, we don’t need to go quite that far into Merchant territory. Though they might have been formed by the people who used to squat in the docks, they’ve expanded southwards since then. There’s an awful lot of residential and commercial areas that became easy pickings as the government pulled back entirely. The Weymouth Shopping Centre is right at the heart of that mess, a few kilometres away from where the truck dropped us off and deep within Merchant territory.

We creep through side streets, darting across open roads, following Newter as he bounces between rooftops, scouting our path. Every now and then we have to shelter as a gaggle of Merchants lurches past us, all heading in the same direction. Anyone Newter misses, Shamrock usually catches, waving us back into the shadows as she heads our column with her shotgun kept raised. We hide in alleyways or broken and abandoned buildings as gangs of Merchants pass us by, all heading in the same direction.

A lot of them are wearing coloured bangles on their wrists, hanging from their clothes, one girl has even stuck a bunch of them together and looped them around her neck. They’re clearly status symbols, rewards for conquering some trial. It’s the only type of rank these organisations recognise, and the bangles are far less intrusive symbols than others I’ve seen. Men with tattoos covering their whole body, teenage kids stabbing pensioners in the streets to earn some low-spec flesh-sculpting offered to them by some back-alley sawbones. Group loyalty enforced by ritual scarification, or the scarification of ‘meat’ brought in fresh of the street. Meat that isn’t expected to last the night…

Beyond the bangles, there’s nothing that ties them together as a cohesive whole. No set colours, though a lot of the gang tags are in blue, no discernible tattoos or even a sign of unity amongst the groups that pass each other. I spot a few gangs that are clearly ABB remnants, and even a few that look like Empire splinters. When the two interact, it’s with barely contained hostility. Worse than them are the people who don’t look like they’re a part of any gang at all. They’re dressed in whatever they happened to salvage in the aftermath of Leviathan, having been caught out in the early morning with the rest of the city. They don’t look like thugs, until you spot the look in their eyes, or the resigned acceptance and fear in the girls that cling to the tougher people.

I feel something in the pit of my stomach as I look at them, wide eyed and desperate, showing more skin than they’re comfortable with, more skin than can be comfortable on this chilly evening. The men they’re accompanying are a bit too free with their hands, while the girls seem torn between freezing and leaning into the warmth. Worst of all are the girls who have coloured armbands around their wrists. I know why they did it; they’re stuck in a shit situation, so they’re trying to make the best of it in the only way available to them. I know _why_ , but that doesn’t make it easier to see.

We hear the mall before we see it, the pounding beats of dozens of conflicting styles and genres echoing through the empty streets. Soon the mall itself looms overhead, battered and broken by Leviathan but still standing. I can see light spilling out of a gaping hole in the roof, as the cacophony of sounds becomes clearer, shifting form mindless noise to the clashing violence of techno, grime, rap, metal and who knows how many other sounds? It’s a genuine fucking festival…

The Merchants don’t have anything like an organised perimeter, so it doesn’t take much work to get us around to the side of the building, where Faultline and the others start to pull out hooks and climbing tools. The boss takes one look around the alleyway, making sure we’re clear, before speaking to me.

“Take Spitfire and Labyrinth up with you. She needs time to seize control.”

I nod, and she turns to Emily.

“Remember, I want you watching Labyrinth like a hawk. If anyone tries to take her out while we’re fighting, I need you to deal with them.”

Spitfire nods determinedly, but I can see her lips are pursed in quiet tension.

“Newter, cover us as we ascend then join us on the roof.”

Newter nods, flashing his usual cocky grin, before pouncing up to the opposite rooftop to keep an eye out for trouble. I lower myself to the ground, waiting for Emily and Elle to get a firm hold on my shoulders, then start to climb. My six spiked limbs make short work of the derelict mall, and I pull the three of us up onto the rooftop before the others are even a tenth of the way up.

We pace up the rooftop, before Emily – Spitfire – pulls Labyrinth aside and into a small divot in the roof, where there used to be an air conditioning unit. I drop to all fours next to Elle, and rest my hand on her shoulder.

“Can you hear me?”

The slightest nod, barely enough to let me know she’s there.

“Can you feel the building?” Another nod. “I need you to reach out and take it, Elle. Get hold of it, but don’t change it yet. Keep it like it is now. Can you do that for me?”

“yes”

Her voice is small and hesitant, but that doesn’t mean she’s unsure. If anything, it’s a sign that she’s not really here anymore. She’s creeping across the mall, becoming every part of the decaying walls and the collapsed roof. Faultline says that powers are influenced by their mental space, and right now her mental pace is spread out across several hundred square metres of urban blight.

I give her a brief hug, before leaving the two of them as I edge along the rooftop, getting closer and closer to a small gap where a roof plate or two has been blown away. I lay flat, edging myself closer and getting a feel for how it creaks under my weight. It wouldn’t do to fall through and into the middle of this mess, but there’s a part of me, deep in my soul, that drags me forwards. I have to look.

What I see is my own personal hell.

For a single moment, the briefest flicker of consciousness, I’m not in America. I’m not on Earth Bet, and I’m not in this body. I’m in London, beneath a sky shimmering with the heat-haze of hundreds of thousands of air conditioners and He3 engines. I’m human; weak, and fragile.

I’ve seen this before; I’ve _been_ here before. It starts off small. Street kids with no other way to entertain themselves, young men with no job prospects and no hope for the future. They get bored, they get hungry, they get vices and they need euros to fuel those vices. Drugs, muggings, gang violence, the endless spiral of escalation and retaliation. That’s just the start. Pretty soon things get so bad, and they get so well armed, that the police start diverting patrols elsewhere. They pull back, _society_ pulls back.

Things get a little tribal then. They say it started with Postcode gangs, people killing each other over the letters on their letters. But eventually the city gets bigger, and that number seems too large as the Postcode gangs splinter. Eventually, things get so bad that the gangs start looking for what territory they can hold, what they can practically defend against their rivals. They turn to the castles of our age, the forest of tower blocks that stretches out south of Shoreditch and doesn’t stop until it hits the suburbs, or the coast.

The air in those places is thick and murky, with city services too scared to show up and repair the AC units, not without a full police escort to stop their gear being nicked and sold while their bodies are broken for sport. The residents are desperate, coughing up tribute to the ruling scum and keeping their head down as they suffer abuse after abuse, powerless to do anything to watch as their own children grow up to idolize their tormentors. An endless spiral of violence and hate, constantly renewing itself as it grows ever larger.

Most of the people down here probably didn’t choose to be Merchants. There wasn’t ever one defining moment they decided that this was what they wanted to do in their lives. They just saw the people who decided to have fun with Armageddon, to take what they can rather than bowing down to authority, to social convention, to human fucking decency. They saw these people, their lifestyle, and found their own wanting.

Weymouth Shopping Centre is a community center, a festival ground and a market all rolled into one. It’s the wet dreams and worst nightmares of every Anarchist in existence, rolled up and packaged into one big horror. Everything’s for sale down there: from basic essentials to homemade weapons; from looted treasures to back alley drugs. Bartering seems as common as actual money, and the whole place is so familiar it hurts.

There’s too much… too much senseless depravity for my mind to handle, so I find myself dividing it down into bitesize chunks. There, an argument has gotten out of hand, and two men are bleeding out on the floor while a fourth is being beaten to death by half a dozen gangers. There, a grand bazaar has been set up in the remains of a food court, ringed by armed guards and filled with stalls laden with pills, powder and anything else that can get you high. There, in the shattered window of a shop, three women are forced to model clothes that are thrown at their feet, like some sick parody of the shopfront dummies that lie graffitied and violated beneath the shattered windows.

No, not three. Two women and a girl.

As I watch, four stories distant from the writing mass of people, a man pushes his way through the throng surrounding the striptease, heavy boots striding over a glittering surface of what must be broken glass from the shop window. As I watch, too enthralled to do so much as think of moving, he throws his arm around her waist and hoists her over his shoulder, shouting something to the crowd before throwing a wad of cash and what looks like pills into their midst. He strides back out as the Merchants scrabble for scraps on the floor, the _teenage girl_ slung over his shoulder like a sack of meat. She’s not moving. She’s too scared to.

A tearing sound brings me back from that shape, and I lose it in the crowds. My head drifts right, down the length of a grey arm armored with white growths of bone. Why was I expecting something different? My hand is curled around one of the metal sheets that makes up the roof. I’ve torn into it, crumpled it even as it slices at my skin. Rich red blood is dripping down into the hell beneath me, thicker than blood should be, until I cut off the flow with a thought, shunting arteries as souped-up platelets begin their work. That sight, the bent metal, the flow of rich red blood slowing and stopping, helps me center myself.

I’m not that girl. I’m not. I’m stronger now, the last vestiges of my humanity hidden within my flesh, buried so deep that nobody can touch them.

They can’t get to me in here.


	67. Breadcrumbs: 10.03

“Hey Sisterfuckers!”

Of all the things I didn’t expect to hear, separated from my home by thousands of miles of open ocean, by sixty years and who knows how many dimensions, I never thought I’d hear a British accent. There’s a stage at one end of the mall. It’s made of scrap and shipping containers, piled together with a flimsy balcony of welded metal bars running along it’s length. It’s just one flat surface atop a whole heap of rubble and spoil, the detritus of the collapsed roof mingling with mannequins and lingerie scattered about the base like the spoils of war, but it’s a stage all the same.

The Merchants, the _real_ Merchants, not these bottom feeders, are standing up there, loosely gathered behind a single man. He’s dressed in a skin-tight blue costume that hugs his ragged posture, with a deep blue cape tossed loosely over his shoulder and matted dreadlocks dangling down to his waist. The girl hanging off his arm is junkie-thin, practically glistening with matted motor oil and flaunting her crackhead physique in jean shorts and a crop top so small she might as well be wearing nothing at all. They’re grimy, ugly, washed-up long before their time and yet the crowd dances to their very tune.

I know what that’s like, I’ve even been down there among them, back before places like this started to give me the shakes. They’re like priests, cutting through all the world and speaking right to your very soul. The church might speak to the falling angel, but these guys are in touch with the rising ape. Ever since the first caveman decided to get his dick wet, no matter the consequences, they’ve been there. Ever since he first found he could rub mushrooms on his gums and watch the world drift away, they’ve been there. Ever since he started bashing two rocks together, just to enjoy the sound of it, they’ve been there.

It’s the church of sex, drugs and rock and roll, and I used to dance to its tune.

“You quim-jockeys up for tonight’s main event? They don’t get any better than this!”

Skidmark paces across the stage, his girl hanging off his arm. Behind the couple are seven other people on the stage. They might not be capes, but that’s a sucker’s bet. Only people this fucking planet respects are capes, so why the fuck would this be any different? Skidmark outnumbers us, and most of his guys weren’t covered in Faultline’s briefing. He’s been a busy little shit.

He raises his hands to the heavens, before bringing them down in quick slashes. Heat-haze emanates from his arms in a long line, passing over and through the crowd before striking the ground, where it turns from heat-haze into something different altogether; unnatural glowing effects that spiral and swirl before settling into flat gradients from violet to a light blue. The crowd shifts and buckles as those caught in the effects are flung towards the blue side, with those on the violet side flung most strongly.

A couple of people throw themselves into the field and scream with joy as it flings them towards the heap of people, while others try to force their way out from the blue side. It looks like they’re walking between some of the deeper tower blocks, the places where the architecture itself twists and contorts the wind to create buffeting gale forces. Some manage to make it out, only to be shoved in by the surrounding crowd, who push and shove to try and get others into the field, all while avoiding being thrown in themselves. Their screams are still manic, but it’s a different sort of mania.

Skidmark swipes his arms again, sideways this time, like a conductor in front of an orchestra. He’s made a square right at the centre of the mall, and he keeps moving his arms in time with some unheard beat, adding layer upon layer to his fields as they turn darker in colour, somehow becoming more tangible at the same time. Another person tries to get out, a boy who looks far too young to be here, let alone in _there._ When he steps on the edge of the field, now an ominous dark blue, he gets thrown back, flipping up a little and landing on his head.

The crowd laughs, and I spot someone take one look at the girl on his arm, chuckle, and lightly push her into the field. She’s flung forwards with absurd force, travelling almost ten metres into the pen, and when she finally stands there’s blood dripping down her face. Her former ‘protector’ just laughs, mockingly applauding her and cheering her on. I hear scraping, as my teeth knash together without any conscious command. I start to hunch down a little, but not enough that I can’t see down into the mall. I don’t think I can look away…

“You piss-licking losers know what the red armband means!” Skidmark cries, his voice weirdly distorted and delayed as it passes through dozens of pilfered speakers all around the mall. “Bloodshed! Violence! We’ve got ourselves a free for all brawl!”

Oh fuck. I knew it was coming, knew there wasn’t anything else it _could_ be, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t send a shiver of fear down my spine.

“Last five standing in the ring get a prize! No rules! I don’t give a shitstained fuck if you jump in at the last second or if you use a weapon! _Anything goes!_ ”

The crowd roars, as people jostle to get a view of the ring. It shifts and writhes like a single, mindless, organism, pushing forwards without caring that it just pushes more people into the field, and into the fight. Some of the people in the ring are cheering; the toughest or the craziest ones, the ones so broken by all this that they’ll take any chance to cut loose. Most of them aren’t. Most of them are too shocked to realise their situation, to react in any way at all. Most people are like that, when they suddenly realise that they’re going to die.

“Our contestants don’t seem to be too excited!” Skidmark shouts to the crowd as they sip at his sarcasm like it’s a class-A drug. “Need an incentive? Let me tell you cockgarlers what you stand to win!”

So this is where it happens. This is where they bring out the cages, the chains, the battered and broken things about to be thrown to the wolves. One of the women behind Skidmark steps forward, more confidently than seems right but with her eyes hidden behind long hair that hangs over her face. So she can’t see them, or because he doesn’t want her to see at all.

Skidmark doesn’t take her, though. He takes the case in her hand. I lie there dumbstruck for an instant, as the illusion collapses and I’m brought back to the here and now. Fuck. I can’t fucking lose focus, not now.

Skidmark’s popped the case open, taking out one of five metal canisters and holding it up under the floodlights.

“Before, we gave our winners the pick of the best, the best stuff our boys and girls have been able to grab from the rich assholes and their fancy-as-fuck houses and jobs.”

The whole crowd are watching, transfixed. They’re still cheering, still roaring, and a few of the trapped ones are still cowering in terror, but there’s a magnetism in the blue-caped man that seems to hold their attention.

“But tonight is fucking special, because we won the lottery when we found this shit!”

The lid of the canister has been entirely unscrewed now, handed off to the girl, and Skidmark has pulled out a simple stoppered glass vial. He raises the vial and the canister high over his head, as the crowd holds their breath in expectation.

“Superpowers in a can!”

That’s enough to bring me completely back to the here and now, at least for the moment. Faultline was right; her informant was right. The power brokers are real, and the evidence is right there, waiting to be given out through some sick gang initiation. I trigger my voicebox to radio Faultline.

“The powers are here, boss. Skidmark’s got one of his capes holding them.”

“Is he distributing them now?”

Faultline’s tone is terse and already a little tired from the climb.

“No, you’ve got time,” I respond, even as those words stab at my heart. She’s got time to wait, while the people down there beat each other to death. Better to hit them when they’ve thinned themselves out a bit.

“Looks like things are only just getting started.”

“Copy that. Keep an eye on it.”

“You’re the boss, boss.”

The first blow brings me right back down there, as a tattooed Merchant bludgeons someone who might have once been an ABB member, before we destroyed the ABB. The sound of his jaw breaking is like a starting gun, and people start to lay into each other with whatever they have. It’s no surprise that the weaker ones are the first to go. The ‘soft targets,’ as callous as it sounds. Lot of the toughs know each other, and even if they didn’t, they’d much rather pick on some teenage schoolgirl who got dragged into this than some burly ex-docker with arms the size of tree trunks.

Way of the fucking world, and ain’t that the truth?

I don’t move, don’t try to intervene, don’t even shed a tear, but I don’t look away. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to. I’m stuck here, just like those people in the pit, except my walls are all in my head. I’m not Khanivore anymore, not right now. I’m just the twenty-three year old rebel who thought she was the queen of the world, only to find out that she’s at the bottom of a very tall pile.

Beneath me, man reverts to his natural state. Alliances are formed and broken in the span of an instant. Friends and families stick together, usually, but there are enough hurt looks of betrayal to show that rule is far from universal. Whenever someone sees an opportunity, they strike, and for every Merchant who gleefully joins the fight, there’s another four who are either holding back or cowering in fear. Those last ones have the contempt of the crowd. It’s their own fault, for not putting on a good enough show.

There’s nothing quite as selfish as an audience.

A spray of blood lands in the field, only to be immediately flung back into the fray. Sick realisation lights in a man’s eyes at that, and he hefts a chunk of concrete over his head before flinging it forwards. It hits the field, accelerating like a shot from a railgun, and flying into the crowd, striking a man who’d been trying to keep his head down. It pulps his shoulder, embedding itself into his chest in a spray of viscera and shattered bone.

The mob casts their judgement, and the thrower is buried beneath a storm of fists and flailing legs as he is beaten to death. Others see his example and follow it, throwing all sorts of refuse and detritus into the arena, ranging from harmless scraps of paper and water bottles to deadly bricks. One woman even throws in a cluster of ball-bearings, which go off like a shotgun into the unprepared crowd.

In the crowd a man, desperate, surrounded, pulls something out of his jacket pocket. I hear the crack of a gunshot, and I see another man stagger back, clutching at his chest as a switchblade falls limp from his hands. The fighters turn on the man on mass – either in retribution for what he’s done or simply because they want the gun for themselves – and the weapon itself is lost beneath the thronging feet. Its sound isn’t. The gunshot reverberates through my head, drowning out the sound of the crowd, even overcoming the pounding rhythms of the few speakers that have started up again.

My eyes start to blur, and I stop seeing the fighters below. All I can see is a blur of movement, an ocean of flesh writhing and shaking to create an image, a tribute to violence itself. I feel more trapped now than I’ve ever been, stuck immobile on a rooftop in a foreign land, on a world that’s not my own. I stop watching the fight, instead focusing on the blue-clad blur looking over it all, leaning his arms on the railing with that unique blend of fascinated contempt that powerful men like to put on when they’re trying to hide their bloodlust.

Skidmark, leaning against the railing like a King looking over his subjects, Accord, ruling over his city from an ivory tower. Coil and Kaiser, facing each other at either end of a long table, plotting and scheming with lives in the balance. Dicko, leaning back with a glass of wine in his hand and a pretty whore at his side. A roman emperor in his colosseum, feigning disinterest while every part of him screams for me to fail. For me to die.

And then, something pulls me out of the spiral. Nothing from below: not a loud noise, a flash of light, or some strange power. It’s the sound of two people falling to the ground behind me.

Muscles that I’d forgotten I had, muscles that have no place in a human body, tense into action as I lurch upwards. I stand unsteadily on two feet for a moment, before dropping to the more-natural four limbs and sprinting back over the roof, which creaks and groans beneath my weight. My eyes, sharper than any humans, cut through the darkness, as they take in the impossible shapes in front of me.

A mass of twisted and crystalline flesh rises out from the rooftop. It’s as big as a van, or maybe larger, or smaller. It seems to distort the space it’s in around itself, ever-shifting without ever actually changing size. Organs that are somehow limbs and bare flesh pulse and writhe, all constructed of organic crystalline materials that are completely unrecognisable to me. Flesh that has no place in nature. A spot at the centre of this mass parts for the briefest instant, and I see a flash of green cloth that has me lurching forwards.

I carve through the mass with tendrils, talons, claws and teeth, ripping it apart in a hail of fluid that dissipates into the air like a gas, and crystalline ichor that oozes and fragments into shards that nick at my flesh. I push myself through, even as the mass starts to envelop me, until my arms are curled around the diminutive girl at the centre. I fumble with her mask for a second, before casting it aside, ignoring the crystals that creep across my body in a twisted parody of sinew and flesh.

Elle’s eyes are darting around manically, in a way I’ve never seen before. No matter how lucid she is, her movements have always been sluggish, a little distant. Now it’s like she’s wide awake. I take her head in my hands, holding it steady so she has no other choice than to look at me. No other choice than to turn away from the monster that her power’s creating.

“Elle. It’s Sonnie. Come back to me, kisa. Come back to me.”

Her arms wrap around my neck, gripping me tightly even as the flesh-construct mimics her movements.

“It’s all connected,” she sobs into my neck, her voice clearer and more certain than its ever been. “We’re all connected to _them._ ”

I gently shush her, using my throat rather than the voicebox, while stroking my claws through her hair. It’s a low purr that no human throat could ever reproduce, but it seems to settle her. Around us, the flesh construct starts to collapse. Parts of it shatter into sharp shards that further split into a slurry with the consistency of sand, before atomising. Others start to drip and flow like water before evaporating into the air. It’s over in a moment, and I’m left with Elle’s head pressed firmly against my chest, her body cocooned within my arms.

There’s a noise off to my right, and I see Emily slowly shake herself upright, looking dazed and confused behind her gas mask.

“I saw…” She pauses, seeming to notice me for the first time. “What the hell was that?”

“No idea.” I respond. “Some kind of cape sh-” – my eyes are drawn to the bundle in my arms – “cape stuff?”

_We’re all connected._ Elle might have been talking to me, but I know she wasn’t talking about me. If this knocked out Emily as well, then it probably got all the capes. The Merchants too, and…

Fuck.

“Spitfire. Look after Labyrinth.”

Emily mutters something in return, but I’m not interested. As gently as I can, I pass Elle off to her and sprint to the edge of the roof, hurling myself off and driving my tendrils into the metal side of the building to slow my descent, trusting the violent orgy to hide the sounds of screeching metal.

I find them about four fifths of the way up, slowly swinging themselves back onto the building. None of them have fallen, thank fuck, but Faultline is still dangling from her rope. I grip her while clinging to the walls, and help her find her handholds again.

“Boss. Something just wiped out all the Capes. It hit El- Labyrinth and Spitfire too.”

“A trigger event…” She sounds shocked, and I cast my mind back to what she told me about how people get powers.

“You said people get their powers through extreme trauma, right? Fuckin’ Skidmark’s got people trapped in a fight to the death down there!”

I can’t see Faultline’s face beneath her mask, but the way she starts to determinedly climb upwards suggests that she’s scowling.

“This is how he’s been growing his forces so fast. He’s deliberately causing trigger events.”

Deliberately setting it up so that people will experience the worst day of their lives, all so that he can add another cape to his roster. It’s the industrialisation of trauma.

I follow the rest of the crew as they climb up the wall, occasionally stopping to help out whenever they get into difficulty. I could help some of them up, but not all of them. It doesn’t take them long, however. Nearly falling off the side of the building has worked wonders for their motivation, and soon we’re all jogging across the roof behind Faultline. I brush through a swarm of curious flies that must have been attracted by Labyrinth’s flesh construct, as we come to the lip of the roof.

The fighting has ended, and the five champions have stepped forwards to receive their prize. One of them seems even more shaken than the rest, and he names a friend to step forward and take the vial in his place. That’d be the mystery cape, then. The odds are now eight to seven – more like six with Spitfire staying up here to guard Labyrinth. Newter crawls over the lip of the roof and disappears out of sight. He’ll be crawling over the ceiling, waiting for the right moment.

Faultline drops to one knee next to me, looking down over the mall like a general surveying a battlefield. She turns back to Labyrinth, her mask featureless and stern.

“Seal the building.”

Elle nods, but I don’t see any visible change. Down below, I know that the door handles will be shrinking away, and the doors themselves will be merging with the walls. We’ve made our own arena, and trapped Skidmark inside it. The cape with the vials starts to unsteadily make her way down the pile of rubble, going to give the gifts to the lucky winners, and Faultline exploits the opportunity. With a single word from her, Newter drops from the roof.


	68. Breadcrumbs: 10.04

Newter drops from the ceiling, falling fifteen metres through the open air before landing, none the worse for wear, in a perfect crouch right behind the bitch with the vial. The cape turns, a little unsteadily on the shifting pile of rubble, kicking up dust and detritus that start to whirl around her like a maelstrom, accelerating at an impossible rate. It’s too slow, however, and Newter almost gently slaps her forehead. She staggers back, once, twice, trying to stand up before her legs give way beneath her and she falls flat onto her back amidst the remains of her maelstrom, the dust and debris flying off in all directions as the force holding it together collapses. The vial slips from her grasp and Newter catches it in his tail, while Faultline watches on in silence.

Newter starts to scrabble up the rubble, leaping from brick to brick with impossible speed and grace as he makes a beeline for Skidmark, for the metal case that’s open next to him. It’s more than a matter of simple speed. Newter moves with a dancer’s grace, making split-second decisions over which parts of the unstable slope are safe to stand on, and which parts he should avoid. His power plays a role too; his footfalls exerting less mass than they should and springing off with a force disproportionate to his movements.

The crowd heaves after him, moving forward in a solid mass now that Skidmark’s makeshift arena walls have dissipated. I see someone in the crowd, one of the five who were about to receive their powers, raise his arms like he’s about to fire, only to hesitate at the sight of the mass of people in his way. As they surge forwards, they leave behind the bodies of the fallen concentrated in a square on the ground, where they spent their last moments trapped like rats in a cage. Some of the bodies are… destroyed, in impossible ways. It looks like entire chunks have been taken out of them, leaving smooth edges like the edge of the ABB’s glass bomb. The new cape, making their debut.

His hair is pure white, with wispy white smoke rising up from it. His eyes, mouth, ears and nose all have similar smoke rising up from them, while his eyes and moth both glow with an unnatural white light. Poor kid’s never going to be anything other than a cape, with a face like that. He seems to waver, hesitantly, before starting to move around the room in a desperate attempt to get an angle on Newter. I wonder how committed he was to the Merchants before this? Whatever his loyalties before, it’s clear he’s jumped in headfirst. He’s got his power, now he gets to revel in it.

Bastard.

Skidmark staggers back as Newter pounces onto the stage, but he’s able to turn his shock into action, flipping his cape out in front of him and coating it glowing lines of force while putting it right in between him and Newter. It’s a move that doesn’t belong on a junkie like him, unless he’s some sort of hyper focused speed freak. Newter’s already mid-leap, but he manages to spit in the face of Skidmark’s girl, Squealer. She’s a vehicle tinker, which means sweet fuck all while we’re indoors, but it’s better to have her out of the fight. Newter hits Skidmark head on, knocking him to the floor even as the cape forces him back. I thought it was just a fucking affectation, but if Skidmark’s smart enough to weaponize his wardrobe then he’s a great deal more dangerous than I thought.

Newter is launched into the railings with a sickening shriek of rusted metal as they break under his weight, and he falls into the midst of the writing crowd as the scramble to get a boot in, even as he starts doping up anyone who gets close. Faultline’s looking down on all this with a dispassionate air, but I know as well as she does that the quick option isn’t going to work here. If Newter could have taken the case then we could have been out of here in a jiffy, with no need to take on so many unknowns. Instead, there’s only one path left available to us. Faultline stands up, stepping right to the very edge of the hole in the roof, before turning back to look at Labyrinth.

“Go loud.”

For a second it looks like nothing’s happening, but that’s just because the first changes aren’t the ones that immediately draw the eye. Labyrinth has already sealed all the doors, and bars have crept across every shop window. The first thing she does is expand that sealant, thickening the walls and hardening the material as the bars start to split and multiply into a gothic lattice of wrought iron. Torch sconces form from this lattice, and orange flames start to light up the room. It’s not that noticeable, especially with everyone’s eyes on Newter and the stage.

When the wall behind the stage starts to bulge inwards, everyone pauses. None of them seem to understand what they’re looking at, as the faux-marble panelling starts to press out, darkening into an almost obsidian surface that forms into shape like a face, with the faintest hint of immense shoulders falling beneath the floor. Around the stage, the rubble shifts slightly as immense fingertips of that same black metal start to creep upwards, until all the Merchant capes look like nothing more than chess pieces under the eyes of a grandmaster.

The eerie silence is suddenly broken by a cacophony of noise as the floor of the mall cracks and bulges up in and amongst the dregs of the gangs, until they’re surrounded by uneven earth that shifts and rises, gathering together as it solidifies into stone, then splitting into the richly carved blocks of endless walls. They rise up, three and a half metres high, as doors and passages start to form. Around the outer walls of this maze, more titanic statues start to bulge out of the walls. Nude men and women, from head to toe as tall as the walls, cavort and fight; immense, obsidian, and yet slowly moving in a stone representation of life.

The Merchants are trapped in this labyrinth, all under the eyes of a wrathful goddess. I don’t know why Elle made this. She was told to trap the Merchants, to leave the stage and the case with the vials clear. The rest of this is her own interpretation of those instructions, and I honestly don’t know if it’s a reflection of her mental state or of the mall itself. It certainly fits as a sacrificial and hedonistic temple, but then Elle doesn’t often get to cut loose, so this could just as easily be a representation at her eagerness to shape a world that dances to her every whim.

The hole in the roof in front of us starts to shift as well, growing teeth until it looks like an immense maw. Four of these teeth start to elongate, hardening into stone poles that stretch down into the temple, meeting metal stalagmites that rise out of the stonework at the base of the stage. Faultline steps into the void, catching the pole with a strip of reinforced fabric that lets her zipline and into the fray, with myself, Shamrock and Gregor following her. Shamrock and Gregor use similar gear, while I just let the pole run along my exoskeleton and drop like a stone. One of the Merchants, armoured from head-to-toe in a steam-powered suit of welded scrap metal, leaps from the stage and barges his way through one of the poles, sending Shamrock hurtling into open air.

Shamrock’s pole breaks into four long segments, one of which lands perfectly upright on the stone floor. She perches atop it with all the balance of an acrobat, angling its descent to set her gently on top of the wall of the maze. The armoured bastard – Trainwreck, Faultline called him in the brief – doesn’t give her the chance, smashing the pole from under her and sending her falling into the maze.

Trainwreck looks up at me, beady eyes peering at me through a metal mask, before kicking out the base of my pole with an almost lazy movement, watching with vague disinterest as I take a far more direct route into the maze than Shamrock did. I hit the wall with a terrible crash, shattering some of the stonework before falling the remaining two metres to the ground in a fog of dusted masonry. I pick myself up almost immediately, bashing the side of my head a couple of times to dislodge some dust that got caught in my eye. It seems to fade away after a few seconds, as Labyrinth’s focus automatically shifts back to her more intact structures.

I seem to have landed on a couple of Merchants, and there are about a dozen others looking at me in shock. One of them, his eyes diluted with some kind of combat stim or cheap-cut drug, looks between the machete in his hands and the monster in front of him, before baring his rotten teeth in a grin. He runs, and the other Merchants seem to take that as cause enough to follow, raising knives, lengths of pipe and even their bare fists as they charge at me.

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?”

What was it Skidmark said? The red armband means bloodshed?

I roar at them, but a crowd is a beast in and of itself, and the drugs probably help them keep their nerve. So, I try a different approach, catching Machete under the chin with a tendril, before delivering a fierce strike into his gut that has him bending double. I curl a tendril ‘round his back, enough to pull him into my arms so that I can lift him over my head and throw him back into the crowd, catching three of the filth under his immense bulk. I wade into and through the crowd, battering them aside with my arms as my tendril become a whirling dervish of meaty flesh that breaks bones and forces them back. Someone pulls a gun, so I wrap a tendril around him and quickly throw him over the wall into the next section of the maze.

With that, it’s done. I’m the only creature left standing that I can see, but that changes almost immediately as another band of Merchants rounds the corner of the maze. This is a waste of time; we trapped these bottom feeders in here for a reason. I drive all four tendrils into the ground, using them to spring my immense bulk three and a half metres up into the air, perching on the top of the wall with my talons before I start to spring from wall to wall, towards the skirmish with the capes.

Trainwreck comes into sight, looking up at me from the base of the stage as he cracks the knuckles on the oversized metal gauntlet of his suit. Gunshots reverberate through the mall and he staggers back as sparks fly up from his shoulders. Shamrock has found her way out of the maze and is advancing on him at a walk, her shotgun with its rubber rounds held by the barrel in her left hand while she fires at Trainwreck with her pistol. She pauses her fire for an instant, before firing a final shot that gets a grunt of pain from the armoured cape as he drops to one knee.

As luck, or Shamrock, would have it, he falls just as I pounce off the outer wall of the labyrinth, crashing into the armoured cape with a force that sends the two of us scraping along the floor, while I straddle his waist and start to work at his armour with my claws. His right arm is immobile, maybe Shamrock hit a joint, but his left swings up and into my face. I catch the blow on my exoskeleton, and the shock of it travels through my body, momentarily disorientating me. My grip slackens a little, just enough for Trainwreck to dig my right hand out of his chest.

I spot Faultline sprinting up out of the corner of my eye, bringing her arm up in a punch that passes right through Trainwreck’s right arm, which shatters entirely to leave him with just a stump. I stare dumbstruck at the sight, before my mouth opens with a wicked grin and I drive the spikes of all four tendrils right into his limbs. It would be lethal on anyone else, but all of Trainwreck’s limbs are mechanical. It makes sense; his armour’s limbs are just too long for a human arm to fit in them, and his torso is too small for them to be curled up inside.

I pull, feeling the hydraulics strain against me before the metal starts to sheer and jets of steam splash across my body. There’s a horrific sound as his limbs come free, and Faultline helps pull my tendrils out of his armour while I strip away the last of the metal from his chest. He’s not human under there, in the same way that Gregor or Newter or Weld aren’t really human. His head is normal enough, with small eyes set in a round face and topped off with an unwashed mop of a ponytail, but his torso is little more than a blob of flesh that seems to have moulded itself into the contours of his armour.

I rip him out of the suit, leaving him as helpless as a new-born babe in my arms as I lift him above my head, taking one last look at his unwashed face as he scowls silently at me. He seems to know what this is leading up to, and that he can’t do shit about it. I toss him over the wall of the maze, confident that he’s well and truly out of the fight.

Was he another Case-53? Another test subject of the power brokers who got dumped? Or was he sent by them to protect their case?

Doesn’t fucking matter right now.

The ground in front of the three of us starts to rise up as Labyrinth forms a staircase of jet-black obsidian, leading all the way up to the rest of the Merchant capes, penned in at the base of her statue. The head is almost entirely separate from the wall now, and the fingers been raised up on implacable stone forearms, but I can’t see the Merchants themselves while I’m looking up from below. What I can see is the look on the statue’s face; the same expressionless look I’ve seen on Elle almost all the time, but with life in those stone eyes that are absent in her real ones.

Maybe we’ve been looking at her condition all wrong? Maybe her ‘good days’ are the ones where her powers are at their strongest, not their weakest, and we’re crippling her by stopping her from using them?

As I’m staring up at her face, Faultline and Shamrock rush past me and start to sprint up the stairs. I shake my head, before following them on all fours. One of the unknown Merchant Capes, with jagged blades of rusted metal growing out of his limbs, steps up to try and eviscerate Faultline, only to fall partially into a patch of ground she’d weakened with her power. She kicks the trapped Cape in the head with her bulky combat boots until he stops moving, then steps over his twitching body and into the fray.

Another cape pulls a gun on her, only for Faultline to drag her right foot along the stage and drop though to the ground beneath, as the Cape fires into empty space. The next thing he sees is me barrelling down on him, and I feel a couple of shots ricochet off my exoskeleton before a third bullet lodges itself into my flesh. I wrap a tendril around him, not caring overly if I crush the occasional rib. His skin seems to be pushing itself out in an attempt to cover his body in scaled armour, but it doesn’t help him escape my grip. Clawed hands flail in my grasp, before I toss him into one of Labyrinth’s immense stone hands, trapping him in its grasp even as more layers of scales grow over his body.

Off to my left, Shamrock is advancing on the fresh Cape, white light spilling from his mouth as it hangs open in shock. Her pistol is holstered, and her right hand is wrapped around the grip of her shotgun even as she rests the barrel contemptuously on her shoulder. She walks towards the cape without a care in the world, even as bursts of his power flash around her. He just can’t land a hit and eventually he gives up on aiming altogether, the air becoming thick with flashes of white light.

Shamrock simply grabs him by the scruff of his neck and shoves him off the side of the stage, before bringing up her shotgun and firing a rubber round that ricochets off Labyrinth’s arm to hit another Merchant cape in the head.

In front of me, a creeping mass of rubble and refuse is caught between Labyrinth’s power and the pot-bellied man who’s trying to form it into a mass around his body. Mush, one of the Merchants who was at the meeting at Somer’s Rock, a lifetime ago. He’s in control of the refuse and detritus, but Labyrinth has cleaned things up to the point where he simply doesn’t have enough to draw from, and the small flecks that fall from his body are quickly absorbed into the floor.

I drive a fist into his pot belly, trying to bowl him over so I can get a knife at his throat and force him to let go of the rubbish. Instead, fear flashes in his eyes and his mass seems to move a little more fluidly as he abandons any attempt at armouring himself, instead pouring a mass of brick dust down my open throat.

I seal my lungs off before the dust can get to them, and start to burn through my hyperoxygenated blood. I’m not going to be smothered any time soon, but that doesn’t mean it’s healthy to have a throat full of dust. The mass wriggles and writhes, far more solid than it has any right to be. It’s a tendril of detritus stretching off of Mush’s body, and it has my jaw locked open even as it starts to tear away at the inside of my throat.

I struggle in vain to pull the tendril out, stabbing at Mush with my own tendrils only to find them sinking into rapidly moving clumps of makeshift armour, which hardens around them. He has me trapped, until a torrent of slime catches him in his exposed face, and he staggers backwards as Gregor launches foul-smelling slime from his hand, the goop rapidly setting into a viscous substance.

The tendril is pulled from my mouth as Mush tries to use the dust to sand the rapidly-hardening substance off of his body, and I take the opportunity to deliver a stout kick to his centre of mass, sending him staggering backwards and into one of Labyrinth’s arms, the black stone statue shifting and contorting around him until he’s stuck fast. Gregor turns his attention to Skidmark, who has been holding Newter at bay with his cape like a matador leading a bull.

The Merchants are done. Skidmark is more or less the last man standing, and he can’t put fields up fast enough to overcome the weight of Gregor’s slime. I start to pace forwards towards him; lazily, almost tauntingly, as I let out a low purring growl. We’re circling him now, and it looks like his dreams of power have come to an end. He might be able to bounce back from this, but men like him live off their reputation, and we’ve torn his empire apart in the span of a few minutes. I can only imagine what this looks like from his position; four capes, slowly advancing towards him, while an immense statue of a fifth stretches out stone hands to snatch him up.

Something lights in his eyes, and I start to sprint forwards. I know that look. He’s not going down without a fight, but he knows that fighting us directly would be worth less than nothing. So he’s going to be petty about it, one last act of spite to make sure we don’t win completely. He slashes out with his hand, creating a field that runs along the case itself. Faultline’s sprinting too, but we’re both too slow to make a difference. His power flares up, and papers cascade into the air. I change course at the last minute, delivering a hammer blow to Skidmark’s cock that has him doubling over in agony, before Gregor steps forwards and coats him from head to toe in slime; his own attempt at recreating the containment foam used by the PRT.

Faultline looks out over the cascading shower of papers. I can’t see anything behind her mask, but there’s tension written on every inch of her body. She turns with forced calm to Shamrock.

“Think you can find them all?”

There’s a pause, as the Irishwoman looks out over the temple, at the rain of papers flickering in the torchlight.

“Aye. Reckon I can get most of them at least, more with a little luck.”

“Good.” Faultline nods, a little firmer this time. “Newter, take down the unpowered members. Khanivore, you’re his backup.”

I nod, rushing down the stairs even as Newter leaps ahead of me, ducking in and out of the maze as he systematically knocks out the unpowered members of the Merchants, who are still running around the maze, like rats in some twisted experiment. I follow him as best I can, easily clambering along the tops of each wall as I keep an ear out for trouble.

It’s a commanding position, one that lets me see from the far end of the mall to the stage, where Elle’s head is silently looking over her domain. It lets me spot the girl. The same girl I saw being hauled off the block by the Merchant that’s now accompanying her, sneaking out the far corner of the mall where Elle’s power doesn’t quite reach with a few more burly men and a couple of other unfortunate teenage girls.

I start to lope towards them, ready to tear the girls away from their captors, only to spot something that has me rooted on the spot. The men are moving far more cohesively than any roadman or gangster I’ve ever seen. They’re alert, and as I watch they climb a wall with a rehearsed movement that I’ve seen before, when Coil’s mercenaries scrambled up my back during the attack on the ABB.

Newter lands on the wall next to me, and I know he’s seen it too. I turn to him, even as I keep one eye on the mercs.

“Looks fishy, doesn’t it? Keep at it with the scum; I’ll go see what these bruiseboys are up to.”


	69. Breadcrumbs: 10.05

I stride over the top of the labyrinth, using the walls like stepping stones even as Labyrinth smoothens down the top for me, unconsciously watching me and following my unspoken needs. She’s more aware of us now than ever before, but not in the way she should be. I think she’s split down everyone inside her temple into friend, foe, and people too insignificant to count. The Merchants, the _powered_ Merchants, had to face down a statue that was actively, if slowly, trying to crush them, while the mooks got stuck in the labyrinth; a simple trap that doesn’t need to be actively monitored.

But we got a set of stairs, stretching right up to where we needed to go, and the walls in front of me are slowly widening, forming stone arches that support an elegantly patterned bridge. The Merchants, still running around in their little maze, take note and fling whatever they can at me. But they’re just pissing in the wind; everything they throw – knives, bricks, pipes – just bounces off and falls right back onto them. Newter’s taking the low road, bouncing in and out of the maze as he renders dozens of people unconscious.

Behind me, Shamrock is scrambling over the heaped rubble that surrounds the Merchant’s stage, gathering up papers and handing them off to Faultline, who puts them back in their metal case. The vials are there too; five glass containers holding five superpowers. It’s almost too absurd to believe, but the idea of absurdity is something I’ve long since given up on. This world has thrown so much shit as me, from flying men to city-destroying monsters, that I’ve just accepted at face value that the clear liquid in those glass vials really does contain superpowers, as biologically impossible as that might seem.

Neither Shamrock nor Faultline are bothering to read the papers. We might have kicked the hornet’s nest here; though the Merchants aren’t going to be causing much trouble in the near future, the moment the other big players learn that their whole roster is stoned out of their mind on Newter’s psychedelics then they’re all going to try and make their move. The Chosen will roll right in, the Pure will fight them just to fuel their vendetta, the smaller players like the ABB remnants will come here seeing it as easy territory and the Protectorate will have to roll in force, or risk losing their already fragile hold over the city.

The outer wall of the temple looms above me, covered in enormous stone figures that writhe and dance in slow motion. If I hadn’t been looking, _really_ looking, I wouldn’t have noticed the movement at all. The two statues immediately in front of me, two women locked in an embrace, start to move faster, stone arms uncurling from stone bodies as they pull back, their hands, held in each other’s arms, raising up to form an arch as the wall of the mall pulls back into an open exit, revealing the flat expanse of an almost-empty car park.

I not to the statues, to Elle, then drop the three metres to the black tarmac, automatically scanning over the almost-empty expanse of the car park. A lot of the city is still frozen on the morning that Leviathan attacked, and the mall is no different. It was early in the morning, too early for anyone other than staff to be here, so the car park is almost entirely empty, with only a couple of beat up vehicles in the choicest spot near the entrance. It gives me an unobstructed view of the few Merchants who managed to slip out through the cracks at the edges of Elle’s power. Rather unsurprisingly, they’re all trying to get as far away from the mall as they can.

I’m not naive. I know we haven’t managed to ‘scare them straight’ or any of that bollocks. We fucked them up hard, knocked them down from their pedestal and shattered any illusions of invincibility they might have had, but that doesn’t mean they’re suddenly going to go and find a mirror so they can take a long hard look at themselves. They’ll be pissing themselves with fear, but they’ll just find a nice quiet bolthole to have a good cry in, then it’ll be business as usual once the Merchants pull themselves out of the spoil heap. Either that or they’ll go running to the other gangs, getting their tattoos redone and switching allegiances as easily as some people change jobs.

The colours might change, but the scum remain the same.

The sunset has entirely given way to night now, and clouds have rolled in from the sea so that there’s barely a star in the sky. My patch of the car park, tucked right up against the side of the building, is almost entirely pitch black, so I wait there for a while as I scan the crowd. Eventually I spot them; six burly mercenaries, three teenage girls and a wounded teenage boy being carried by one of the mercs. The soldiers are doing a pretty good job at keeping all the angles in sight, but I’m confident that they can’t see me in the shadows. I watch in silence as they cross the parking lot and duck down a side street, before following them.

I don’t trail them directly, instead veering off to one side and hauling myself the side of the building. It’s loud, but hopefully not loud enough for them to hear. I pace back along the rooftop, long practice keeping my footwork light in spite of my bulky frame. This part of town isn’t quite as old as the rest of it so the roofs are all flat, rather than being made of angled tiles that would slip and slide underfoot. I move as quietly as possible, listening for the sounds of eight people moving down on the street below me until they suddenly stop moving.

I creep to the edge, slowly, and look down onto the road to see the soldiers forming a loose perimeter around the teens. The boy is lying on the ground with one of the mercs standing over him, looking over his wounds as best he can. They must be waiting for a van to take the kid away. The girl they dragged out of the striptease is standing in the corner, quietly having a little cry, while the other two girls are sitting on the steps of a building, right below me, as they pour over a few scraps of paper.

Well, well, well. What do we have here?

“What’s on the other pages?” One of the two asks. She’s tall, with black hair down to her shoulders. Her ‘friend’ is blonde, and she’s staring deeply at a few sheets of paper she’s spread out in front of her.

“Sixteen is accounting. Bank statements, confirmation of money exchanged, a list of what was bought. Seven figures base price, more for this Nemesis program, still more for some powers. Don’t have all the pages I’d need to get it, but I’m getting the sense the more unique powers and the stronger ones cost way more.”

Confirmation, if confirmation was needed. Have to wonder just who these people are. Before, I’d kind of assumed that the mercs had been hired to extract the teens and bring them back to their worried, and no doubt wealthy, parents, but this is a little more complicated. That they’re capes is obvious; these highly trained soldiers are being far too deferential to a couple of girls.

“Pages eighteen and nineteen refer back to something called the ‘Nemesis program’, potentially revoking it, they’re talking about debts, services required by this ‘Cauldron’ using the clients’ powers. There’s a bunch of specifics on how the time, effort and risk of said services would factor in with one another.”

Guess these documents must be the real thing, if they actually have the name of the organisation on them. ‘Cauldron,’ eh? I suppose witchcraft is as good an explanation as any for how they’ve managed to bottle superpowers.

“People can buy powers? How many people are doing this?”

Lanky girl seems pissed off, and that’s all the confirmation I need. Most people, especially the kids of families wealthy enough to hire a black-ops team, would be over the moon at the news they could just buy superpowers. But Capes… Capes are different. They’re all arrogant bastards, give or take a few exceptions. They went through a whole lot of shit to get their powers, and they tend to think that places them above everyone else. No wonder she’d be pissed at someone buying their way to success.

“Enough that there’s a whole enterprise here with a private army. There’s this bit that very politely notes that breaking the rules will get you hunted down and executed by Subjects, capital S. Clients are warned that these guys are entirely loyal to Cauldron, will not accept bribes. And these Subjects are apparently something different from Deviations.”

I think I hear a car in the distance. It’s time to move.

Without thinking, I pounce off the rooftop and drop the three stories to the ground, using my tendrils to cushion the blow as I land right in front of the capes before stretching out one to wrap up the crying girl in a vice-like grip. It’s always better to negotiate from a position of strength, and that goes double when you’re dealing with Capes. All the subtle wordplay and hidden insults that were Dicko’s bread and butter go out the window once you throw superpowers into the mix. There’s still posturing, don’t get me wrong, but it’s all about who holds the biggest stick.

The mercs move almost as one, drawing concealed pistols from their coats as I keep the girl close to my side. She’s not really an effective human shield, but that’s not the point.

“Put those pea shooters away. They can’t do shit to me.”

“That’s not entirely true, is it?”

The blonde seems to have recovered quickly, even as she almost presses herself against the building. The grin on her face is certainly cocky enough, but who’s to say she’s not just really good at bravado. The other girl, the lanky one, starts to back away even further only to stop in her tracks as I wave a spiked tendril in her face. Capes are safest when kept in stabbing range.

“If they hit you right between the armour and the skin, it’d probably go through. If they shot your eyes at the right angle, the bullet might even travel down the entire length of your body. That would do a _lot_ of damage.”

“You’ve a good eye for fighters.” I’m almost impressed. “Well so do I. So I got a little suspicious when I saw a bunch of soldiers at what’s supposed to be a junkie only event. Then I saw then taking marching orders from a couple of girls half their age, and I get this funny notion in my head that the two of you might be capes.”

I’m pacing towards the blonde now, clambering up the steps until my head is right in front of her, even as my right eye keeps the other one covered. I hear a thrumming sound, and stop in my tracks as I’m suddenly blinded by a thousand tiny insects that crawl over my body, pouring into my open mouth and travelling deep down my throat. It’s probably one of the most unsettling things I’ve ever experienced. Good thing I don’t need to breathe that often, or I’d be right fucked now. I don’t even need to breathe to speak.

“Well that answers _that_ question. Skitter, Tattletale, it’s been too long. You were pretty impressive against the ABB. Of course, there’s one thing you’ve forgotten.” I turn around, striding blindly out into the middle of the street as I rear up onto two legs, holding the girl tight in my tendril. She’s writhing and thrashing like mad now, not that I can blame her.

“See, the way I see it there’s three possibilities. The first is that this bitch and the bleeding bastard over there have rich parents, so you won’t want me to kill her because you’d be risking your payment. The second is that you’re the biggest bunch of bleeding hearts to ever call yourselves supervillains, and you won’t want me to crush the _one_ girl out of dozens that you managed to save.”

I look around, grinning wildly, not caring that I can’t see, or that the movement lets another hundred bugs settle in my throat. I’m just caught up in the moment.

“The third option is that you don’t give a shit about her, that your merc over there decided he’d buy her for a fistful of drugs and cash because he wants a bedwarmer and knows he’ll never find a girl willing to indulge all his fucked-up kinks. In which case, I’ll kill you right here, and I’ll fucking enjoy it too.”

“You didn’t kill anyone in the mall,” someone, probably Skitter, retorts, “you won’t kill anyone here.”

“I’d be willing to make an exception for a bunch of raping bastards.”

“Well you won’t have to do that today.” Tattletale interjects. “The truth is a combination of the first and second situation; we came here for the boy, and my associate here decided to help the girl as well. Please don’t tell anyone; it’d ruin her reputation.”

Her words are jovial, and the swarm slowly pulls itself off me. As I expected, the two capes have pulled back behind a line of mercs, all of whom are pointing their guns at me. Most of them right at my eyes. Thanks for letting that one slip, Tattletits. Have to be more careful if I ever end up fighting the Undersiders.

“We’re honestly not looking for trouble with Faultline,” Skitter speaks up, “and I have no problems with giving you these. It was a spur of the moment thing, and they’d have been ruined if they just drifted in there.”

Not bloody likely; not with the luck of the Irish on our side…

“All I ask is that you let Ch- let _the girl_ go.”

Skitter’s covered the upper half of her face with a carpet of bugs, and the rest of her swarm is filling the street behind her. How very like a Cape; hiding behind their powers and a mask. Tattletale isn’t hiding her face, but that doesn’t mean she’s not putting on a false front. Skitter takes a step forwards, the papers held in an outstretched arm, only for Tattletale to stop her with a gentle touch on her shoulder.

“You’re one of these Subjects, aren’t you? No, wait. You don’t work for them, and you’re not a Case-53…”

Her brow furrows in frustration, like she’s standing on the edge of something big.

“We’re still working on exactly what I am.” Fuck it, I’ll humour her. “I don’t have powers, but I’ve got Cauldron’s mark all the same. Bloody magpies. It’s _basically_ plagiarism.”

“Wouldn’t mind copies of whatever you’ve got.” Lisa muses, continuing when she sees the look on my face. “I’m good at figuring stuff out. I’m a fountain of knowledge. I want to know more about this stuff, and I could help you guys in exchange for what you’ve already got.”

“And why do you give a shit?”

“I just can’t leave a mystery alone.” She grins up at me, scribbling a phone number on the back of one of the sheets of paper before handing them off to one of the mercs, who starts to slowly walk towards me. “I see a tangled web like this, and my first instinct is to start pulling. That’s my number. Tell Faultline to give me a call.”

Oh great. Spare me from plucky teens and their mysteries. It’s a supervillain Famous Five…

“Faultline doesn’t like you.” I snarl. “I don’t like you either.”

“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual. But she’s not stupid. She knows this is mutually beneficial.”

I hold the papers gingerly between my claws, being careful not to tear them, as I unwrap the tendril around my captive, letting her roll unceremoniously onto the floor. One of the mercs rushes up and drags her to safety, but she looks just as terrified of Skitter as she is of me.

“Sorry about that.” I take one last look at her, before turning to the two Undersiders.

“Hope you enjoy being kings of this cesspool of a city.”

“We will!” Tattletale waves goodbye as their getaway car, plus what looks like a real ambulance, rounds the corner. “Have fun selling yourself to the highest bidder.”

The last words I catch from them is something Tattletale says to Skitter.

“She meant it when she said she was sorry.”

I wait until they’re out of sight, before switching the channel over to the team comms.

“Boss. Ran into Skitter and Tattletale of the Undersiders. They had pages…” I pause, flicking through the sheets of paper, “two, eighteen, nineteen, twenty-seven and sixteen.”

“Good.” Faultline’s voice comes back clear. “That’s a complete set. We’re withdrawing; make your own way back to the Palanquin. We’ll go over the papers, and how Tattletale is involved, once you get back.”

“No worries, boss.” I reply, before slinking eagerly off into the pitch-black streets of the city. There might not be any answers in these papers, but it’s a start.


	70. Breadcrumbs: 10.06

I emerge from the shadows, crossing into the floodlit surroundings of the Palanquin. The sentry takes one look at my silhouette before standing aside, nodding to me as I enter the building itself. The city is slowly piecing itself back together: the roads are being cleared, shattered and sunken buildings swept away, and salvage crews are almost constantly growing as the government attempts to keep people working so they don’t get bored and turn to crime. But we’re still on a war footing.

It’ll be months before people even start to think about going back to the clubs and bars that litter this part of the city, and the Merchants are a problem _right now_. Hopefully the beating we just gave them is enough to convince them that attacking us in our home is suicide, but I know better than most that reason and logic are the first things to go out of the window when the blood is up. We’ll just have to keep the Palanquin on a war footing until they get it out of their system, or the next big thing comes along to distract them.

The rest of the Crew are waiting inside, gathered around the table of our makeshift War Room. Faultline nods to me as I enter, her metal mask set on the table as her eyes drift to the papers clutched in my hand. I pass them off to her and she hands them to Shamrock, who starts to arrange our haul in numerical order. Nobody’s reading them yet; every one of us wants the complete picture, rather than drip-fed scraps.

“What were the Undersiders doing there?”

Faultline’s tone is calm, but there’s a harsh undercurrent to her words.

“Not all the Undersiders,” I respond. “Skitter and Tattletale, as well as four mercenaries. According to them, they went in to rescue a civilian, and Skitter snagged some papers out of sheer curiosity.”

“Do you trust them?”

“About as far as I can throw them, which, in their case, might be a bad example. But Skitter’s flexible enough with her bugs that she could probably have snagged them all if she wanted to. They certainly seemed to value their rescued kids over the papers.”

“So it’s a coincidence? The Undersiders happen to show up right as we launch our attack?”

“Don’t know what to tell you, boss,” I reply, a little defensively. “It _seemed_ more like curiosity than a deliberate attempt to take the papers, though Tattletale was certainly interested in them. She scribbled her phone number on the back of one of the sheets, told me to tell you to send her what we get.”

Faultline snorts, showing exactly what she thinks about _that_ idea.

“If she can help,” Gregor rumbles from the other end of the table, “shouldn’t we consider her offer?”

“I don’t trust her motives,” Faultline replies, before turning to me. “Did she _offer_ any motives?”

“None. She made it sound like idle curiosity, and I’m inclined to believe her. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong is practically step one of being a teenager.”

“There’s two possibilities,” Faultline says, as Shamrock arranges the last few sheets of paper. “The first is that she’s just curious, in which case she doesn’t have any reason not to sell her information over to the highest bidder, which will probably end up being the power brokers.”

“Cauldron.” I interrupt. “They’re called Cauldron.”

“Appropriate,” Gregor chuckles at some personal joke.

“The second possibility,” Faultline continues, though she doesn’t look pissed at the interruption, “is that her backers, if she has them, want her to keep tabs on what we know. She could even have been hired by the brokers, by _Cauldron_ , herself.”

“Couldn’t you say the same about any of us?” Spitfire pipes up.

“No. Down that road, madness lies. We all have a stake in this fight.”

Faultline’s right. That kind of thought would get us nowhere fast; we can’t let everything we’ve built get torn apart by suspicion.

“Let’s see how far the papers take us, then talk about whether or not to involve Tattletale.”

A couple of brief nods answer my words, as everyone’s attention is drawn right back to the papers neatly arrayed along the table. Faultline moves around the table to where she can get a good look at the pages, idly running her hand along the crisp white paper.

“It’s a form letter, meant to summarise the transaction to the client.” My eyes drift up to the five metal cylinders spread out in a line along the top of the table. Five superpowers, on route to their new owners with all the paperwork signed in triplicate. “It looks like this was meant to serve as the last piece of communication between Cauldron and their client.”

Faultline starts dividing up papers, passing them around to us.

“Shamrock, you take the first section. Looks like a summary of information and communications made up to this point. Sonnie, take the second section, it looks like medical advice. Gregor,” she looks up at him, sliding the last five pages across the table, “this section deals with the next steps of the agreement; services that haven’t been provided yet and favours owed. I’ll take the accounting details and the boilerplate legal stuff.”

I spread out my papers in front of me carefully, so as not to tear them with my claws. The first few pages of the medical section all focus on a breakdown of the categorisation of the powers involved, with language that makes it seem like this is something that’s been explained to the clients before, and that it is only being repeated here for completeness sake.

The powers are categorised by three variables; O, P and R. ‘O’ apparently refers to the uniqueness of a given power. At first, it seems like a strange variable to keep track of, but then I remember that it’s going to Capes. Image is everything to them, and having a power that stands out from the crowd would be well worth the cost of admission. Unfortunately, it reduces the value of these variables. It would be much more useful to see how Cauldron themselves categorise the powers, rather than how they market them.

The ‘P’ number is a little simpler in nature; it refers to the strength of the power involved. It’s a bit of a bullshit measurement, with Parahuman powers being so unpredictable, but they’ve done their best to make it a little clearer. The PRT has their own method of breaking down Parahuman powers into categories, with a numerical rating added on to indicate how tough that cape would be to fight. Seems like Cauldron uses the same formula, with a higher P number basically referring to how tough the power would be to fight.

It’s not a perfect system, but I guess it works well enough. Faultline told me once that the PRT would probably see me as a Brute 4, because of my armoured body, and Mover 2, because I’m pretty fast and my tendrils make me more manoeuvrable than usual. According to her, Elle is listed as a Shaker 12 by the PRT.

The ‘R’ number is the most interesting of them all. Apparently, it’s the likelihood that a given power will result in ‘deviations.’ Deviations which can be something as minor as a different coloured iris, or changes so major that they render the client unable to function in human society. My eyes drift upwards, taking in Newter and Gregor as they pour over their own papers. From what Shamrock said, it seems that Cauldron uses their kidnap victims to test the formulas, probably so that they can get the blend right to maximise the ‘P’ number while minimising the risk of deviation, of mutation.

The next page deals with advice on how to administer the vials themselves. Clients should apparently not take the vials together, but instead should either take them one at a time in the same room or, ideally, simultaneously in different rooms. There’s a warning here that clients two through six, the ones actually taking the vials, should not see other clients taking theirs, and should be seated comfortably on their own.

At first it looks like so much medical boilerplate, but things quickly start to seem a lot more complicated than that: repeated warnings caution against consuming the vial while in an ‘agitated mental state,’ the clients are reminded to be mindful of the psychological conditioning, mantras and information that was offered during the ‘Shaping’ package, and particular importance is placed on consuming the vial as quickly as possible.

I reach across the table, hooking the end of my tendril around one of the metal cylinders before pulling it across to me. I hold the cylinder up to my face, noting the faint omega engraved into the lid, and unscrew it to reveal a simple glass vial, stoppered with a rubber cork and held firm in a layer of padding. I hold the vial up to the light, noting the faint discolorations within the otherwise clear liquid, and start to think.

What the hell does this thing do to you? If it’s a biological process, then why the fuck does it matter if the subject is a little pissed off when they take it?

“You going to drink that?”

All of a sudden, Newter’s right beside me. I didn’t even hear him approach, the sneaky prick.

“What?”

You gonna drink that?” He repeats. “I would, but I overheard Skidmark say that people who already have powers shouldn’t.” I look down at the pages; there is indeed one that warns against Capes drinking any of the vials. “But you’re not a Cape. So why not, eh? Get some superpowers for yourself?”

I stare at him like his head’s suddenly fallen off. I just can’t wrap my head around how incredibly stupid that sounds.

“Newter,” I start, poking the pages with my finger so hard that I’m pretty sure I marked the table, “this thing can be affected by the mental state of the person taking it. There’s a note here that says the vials should be drunk as soon after receiving them as possible, before the psychological and physiological evaluations go out of date. Even _if_ I was anything close to a stable person, then there’s still the problem that most of my DNA isn’t anywhere _near_ human. No, I’m not going to chug some mysterious Bitek like it’s a shot of discount vodka!”

“Hey, it’s your loss,” he says, lazily knitting his fingers behind his head as he stretches back a little. “They’re only superpowers. No big deal, or anything.”

“What I don’t get is why it should matter. Somehow, whatever Bitek this vial contains lets someone violate the laws of biology and physics. If it’s a biological process, then it shouldn’t matter how the client is _feeling_ when they take it.”

“What if it has something to do with the corona gemma?”

Spitfire asks, appearing as suddenly and as quietly as Newter. Maybe they’re not quiet; maybe I’m just distracted?

“The what?”

“The corona gemma. It’s a tumour in the brain that all parahumans have. A decent proportion of the population have a corona pollentia, but when they go through a trigger event it swells a little, becoming an active gemma. It’s the only thing that distinguishes most capes from normal humans.”

I look at her, more than a little dumbstruck.

“I read about it online. I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

I chuckle a little, a low sound from the back of my throat. “No you’re not…”

She punches me on the arm for my trouble, but what she said has me thinking. Even if it’s a brain tumour, there still shouldn’t be any difference coming from emotional states. Unless…

Unconsciously, my hand drifts upwards to scratch at the side of my neck, and I find a year or two of distance, and by their own barely-understandable scientific jargon. They were the people responsible for putting the affinity link in me, for all that it was Ivrina who handled the actual brain surgery, and all the other surgery, and they were probably the most knowledgeable people I knew when it came to that sort of thing.

My link is a ‘blank’ link, designed to allow one body to assume complete control of another. There was never a second consciousness in my old body, just a couple of bioware processors that let my brain control the muscles from the other side of the room. Its legal use is generally in hazardous environments or warfare; with a human operator controlling a mindless servitor that can be safely exposed to danger.

But there’s another type of link too; a neural network. It’s both cutting edge and low-tech all at the same time, designed to let a human operator remotely monitor a crew of dozens, perhaps hundreds, of semi-sapient servitors at a time. The two bioengineers loved taking shop about that sort of thing and, given that we were all crammed together in the caravan we lived out of, I had to learn to love it as well. Or at least tolerate it…

I can vaguely remember them talking about the importance of getting a good baseline on that sort of thing. With so many semi-sapient minds taking directions from a single human controller, an irregular result when setting up the affinity link could result in unpaired neuron symbionts, leaving the human operator looking like a bit of a tit while surrounded by dozens of idling litter-picker simians.

It could be that the same principle applies here, that the vials need a steady ‘baseline’ to really stick. Without it the powers, or whatever tumour causes them, has a hard time latching on, resulting in a greater risk of ‘deviants.’ Maybe the same happens to ‘natural’ triggers: people like Faultline, Labyrinth or Spitfire. If their gemma develops when they’re traumatised, then their powers would probably function best under similar situations, when they’re more closely aligned with that baseline mental state, as fucked-up as that is.

But if that’s true, if it is even remotely similar to an Affinity Neuron Symbiont, then what the hell is it connected to? In many ways it would make things easier to understand if it’s a connection to whatever generates their powers, rather than the source itself. It would explain away a lot of the sheer impossibility of it all, but that just leads to some far more worrying questions. Like who set this up in the first place, and why?

Of course, all this is based off whatever the fuck Emily happened to read online. I know for certain that Ivrina, beautiful boffin that she is, would throw me out on my arse if I came to her with a theory built on such flimsy ground. Even if it isn’t a complete crock of shit, then it’s still a problem that’s well above my paygrade. Faultline wants me to read the pages, and read the pages I shall.

I set my current page aside, pulling down the next one.

_In the event of a Deviation scenario in client four, or in the unlikely event of a_   
_deviation scenario in clients two, three, five and six, client one is advised to_   
_follow the following procedures:_

  * _Wait until the physical changes have stabilised before approaching the_  
 _client._
  * _In the event of a harmful Deviation, withdraw to a safe distance and_  
 _contact the emergency number below. Due to the unpredictability of_  
 _Parahuman abilities, other powered clients are not to engage the Deviant._
  * _In the event of a Deviation that is easily concealed under clothing or_  
 _cosmetics, no further action is required on Cauldron’s part._
  * _In the event of a Deviation that is not easily concealed, but would not be_  
 _categorised as severe, contact the emergency number to arrange_  
 _psychological counselling or surgery. Many of Cauldron’s clients choose_  
 _not to hide their deviations, and live as successful public capes._
  * _Though extremely unlikely, a client may develop an extreme Deviation_  
 _that would drastically affect their quality of life. In this event, contact the_  
 _emergency number immediately, to arrange palliative care in a trusted_  
 _facility._
  * _As client one has been made aware of client four’s borderline failure on_  
 _the psychological evaluation, Cauldron is not responsible for providing_  
 _compensation in the event of an extreme Deviant scenario. Should an_  
 _extreme Deviation scenario occur with any of the other clients, Cauldron_  
 _will take a case-by-case approach._
  * _267 555 0182 is your emergency telephone number. In the event of an_  
 _emergency, this number will put you through to one of our agents, who_  
 _can arrange triage response, containment, medical care or any other_



Jackpot.

I slide the page over to Faultline, who quickly scans it before setting it aside and nodding to me. That phone number is a lead we can follow, and there’s more on whatever papers the others have. I take a quick look around the room, just in time to see Gregor’s face contort into a rictus of shock, before he storms out of the room. I stretch out a tendril to spike the page he was looking at, pulling it across the table with the squeak of metal on bone.

_one will be deployed two weeks after receipt of the powers, though clients are_   
_advised not to engage the Nemesis until after they have been active for three_   
_weeks. Nemesis one’s program has been designed around the timeline agreed_   
_by client one in the initial meeting, and cannot be altered. At the three-week_   
_point, nemesis one will be engaged in a burglary at the location listed below._

  *   
_Bank of America, Fore St, Portland, Maine, between 22:00 and 02:00_



_Until this point, nemesis one’s psychological programming will lead it to commit_   
_a number of high-profile burglaries aimed at drawing the attention of local media_   
_and Protectorate assets, who will be too preoccupied to address the situation._   
_This is aimed at maximising the media attention around the clients’ debut._   
  
_Nemesis one resembles a human female in her late teens, with insectoid limbs_   
_and brown carapace in place of skin. It is capable of rapid and acrobatic_   
_movement and can fire solid carapace darts from its hands. These abilities have_   
_been tailored to be countered by clients three and five, and nemesis one has_   
_been programmed with an auto-lose trigger that will result in its surrender._   
  
_Nemesis two will be deployed once eight weeks have passed from receipt of_   
_the vial. In accordance with the timeline outlined by client one, nemesis two will_   
_serve to cement the clients’ reputation as an independent hero team. Nemesis_   
_two has been more extensively programmed with a rivalry trigger for client two,_   
_resulting in a recurring auto-lose trigger._   
  
_Unlike nemesis one, nemesis two has been programmed to flee, rather than_   
_surrender, and as such will serve as a recurring antagonist for the group,_   
_escalating the threat so as to elevate the status of the group as a whole, while_   
_also cementing client two as the preeminent member and leader._   
  
_Nemesis two has yet to be gestated, and as such no description is currently_   
_available._

Fucking hell. It’s one thing to suspect, to have our suspicions and doubts, but it’s another thing entirely to see two lives laid out in black and white. I spear the next page with my tendril, forcefully enough that I have to pull it off the metal and uncrumple it by hand. I only saw Gregor glance at this one, and the reason for that is immediately obvious.

_Clients are reminded that while nemesis units have been purpose-grown for the_   
_program, the destruction of the nemesis unit itself is not recommended. As far_   
_as the world at large is concerned, nemesis units are ordinary Parahuman_   
_villains. Their destruction would result in a negative media presence, which_   
_would render the purchased nemeses redundant as a means of improving the_   
_reputation of the clients’ team._

I look up, and see the others looking back at me with worry in their eyes. Newter looks particularly worried, and his eyes keep drifting to the papers I was reading. I take a moment to steady myself, to calm my racing heartbeat, before speaking.

“It’s just as bad as we thought.”

With that, I drop to all fours and pace out the exit of the Palanquin, following in Gregor’s footsteps. I find him outside the perimeter, sitting in the first-floor window of a ruined office that overlooks the Palanquin. He doesn’t comment as I haul myself up through the broken window and curl up at the foot of his chair, breathing slowly as we both look out over the Palanquin, at the sign that hasn’t been lit in months, at the floodlights, the armed sentry. At our home, in its reduced state.

“She called herself Weatherglass. She used to wear a skintight white costume with blue lightning bolts running down her arms and legs. She was in her mid-twenties, perhaps, with blonde hair in a ponytail that fell down to her waist. She was beautiful, and I hated her for it, more than I have ever hated anyone since. I used to go out, to steal and rob and fight, in the hope that the Protectorate would send her to stop me. We fought our way across Indianapolis for two years. For the first two years of my existence.”

“What happened?”

I have to ask. Not just because I want to know. He needs to hear me, needs to know that I’m here, listening to him.

“She died. Behemoth attacked, somewhere in California, I cannot remember where. She left with the Protectorate to fight him, and she never came back. I left Indianapolis within a week; I felt like there was nothing keeping me there so I left for the East Coast and took work as a bouncer, as hired muscle, until Faultline found me.”

He falls silent for a moment, looking out over the Palanquin, before he seems to sink into his chair, letting out a long sigh as he cups his head in his hands.

“I hated her. I thought I knew why. I thought it was because she was everything I was not, because she was everything I would never have. I thought it was because her powers made a mockery of mine. She had a degree of control over air, you see. She used it to turn away my chemicals and my gases, and she could do something with it that would cause lighting to arc through my body. In our last few fights, I started to consider using lethal gases to stop her, or even just to spite her. If I couldn’t beat her, I would kill those she cares about.”

I lie still, content to let him continue at his own pace, to take as long as he needs.

“Now I find that my hatred was put into my head; that I am a thing, an object created to fight her until she no longer needs me.”

“You’re more than that. Even if you don’t remember it, you’ve always been more than that.”

“But what does it matter?” He snaps at me, his head angrily jerking to look me in the eye. “What does it matter if I can’t remember? I did not exist before I woke up in an alleyway between a laundromat and a fast food restaurant. _Someone_ did. But without their memories, without their appearance, I am not that person. I was never that person.”

“Then fuck the past. That shit doesn’t matter. When you joined Faultline, that was _your_ choice, nobody else’s. Everything you’ve done since then, trying to uncover the mystery behind your past, that’s all been you as well.”

My voice trails off, and he falls silent.

“Look…” my voice is hesitant, uncertain. “I know I’m not the most emotionally aware person out there, but you can talk to the others. I know you probably don’t want to talk to Faultline about it. You’re loyal to her, but you don’t want to bother her with personal issues, or you don’t feel like you can. I get it; I feel the same way about her, and I was a teenage runaway. But talk to _someone._ Maybe Shamrock. She’s seen this shit from the inside.”

Gregor’s lips purse, and a firmness seems to settle in his eyes. He stands up, his hands clenched into fists by his side. He looks down at me as I stay curled up on the floor, still unwilling to move.

“Gregor was the name I chose. _She_ was the one who added ‘the Snail.’ It is the one part of my hate for her that I can be sure is genuine. You are right; I am no longer the person I was before she died, just as I am no longer the person I was before Cauldron abducted me. But I think I will keep the name, all the same.”

The slightest hint of a smirk creeps onto my face. I can understand holding onto something small like that, when everything else in your life is shifting around you. It’s something that’s _yours._ Gregor makes his way down and out of the ruined store, but I don’t follow. I stay in the window, watching as he crosses into the floodlit perimeter of the Palanquin. No matter what else life throws at us, no matter how deep this fucking rabbit hole goes, at least we’ll always have a home to come back to.


	71. Interlude 10: Labyrinth

The chair is closed around me, leather straps coiling up my arms and legs like serpents while a lattice of chains spreads across my chest, links growing and twisting together as they grow more intricate, sharper, feeling like they’re digging their way into my chest. They won’t, of course. No matter how much it constricts me, how much it wears me down and breaks me, my world will never hurt me in that way. I don’t think it can.

Around my chair, the floor is made of coarse cloth, padded and lumpy. It’s stained with blood and shit, and ripped and torn in places to reveal rotten padding. The cloth is held to the floor with coils of rusted barbed wire, which creep up the walls like ivy, and I can see – I can feel – the razor blades hidden amongst the padding, razor sharp and rusted red. I could move them with a thought, could have them extend or shift and turn the wall into a moving mass of sharp metal, but I don’t.

I’m not supposed to use my power. I’m not supposed to let it grow out like this, either, but I can’t control it, and they don’t understand that. My world is always there, pressing at the boundaries of the real world – though it doesn’t feel real to me. Not like this. It always slips through, one way or another. When it’s at its worst, when my power moves past my cell and into the rest of the Asylum, they get cross with me.

The orderlies, featureless white shapes armoured from head to toe, will push me through the halls for hours at a time, switching out every four hours with another identical officer, so that my power can’t get a hold on this world, so that _I_ can’t get a hold here. Those days are a haze; without my world to anchor me, as horrifying as it is and as ashamed as I am of it, I feel my grip on reality slipping more and more until I can barely make out the shape of the figure pushing my wheelchair and the motion of the wheels themselves as they run along the floor.

I have vague memories of black-clad men and women with rifles and foam, screaming and writhing, but I’ve not seen them since. The guards wear white armour that covers them from head to toe. Their features are hidden behind a featureless white helmet, and I can’t even tell of the person pushing my chair is a man or a woman. Not that it would make much of a difference; I can’t really see people on those bad days, and I can’t form the words I’d need to talk to them.

This isn’t a good day, but it’s not a bad one. It’s just the unhappy medium I spend most of my time in, where I have to strain to keep my power from spilling out of my room and into the corridor. It means I can talk, if I want, and I can even listen and follow along with what’s happening outside my world.

“Labyrinth.”

Sound intrudes, and I suddenly remember the person sitting on the chair opposite me. I remember that I’m not really sitting on a chair, but on my bed. I just made the chair because I wanted my back to be a little more comfortable, then started chaining myself down to feel more secure and because sometimes I still move without thinking. If I can hold myself down, maybe I can hold my power down as well?

“Labyrinth. Can you hear me?”

My mind has wandered again, so I bring it back to the doctor. It’s _hard._ I can’t see him clearly. I can see the chair he’s sitting on, I can feel the cold iron shape, twisted into a lattice of gothic shapes that juts up uncomfortably. That’s where things get _hard._ I can feel the piercing spikes jutting upwards through the chair, but I can also see the figure sitting on it without any difficulty. The first thing she did, the first thing they always do, is ask me to anchor her. She can’t see what I see; all she can see is me.

I think she’s looking at me expectantly, but it’s hard to tell. I’m dangerous, so they tell me, so they have to wear a special suit in case I lose control and stop anchoring them. It’s white, like everything else in this place that isn’t something I’ve created, and covers them from head to toe. It looks soft, unlike the armour worn by the guards, but I know that’s just because it’s padded and filled with airbags. There’s armour there too, a skeleton of steel and mesh over their real body. I don’t line to remember how I found that out.

“Labyrinth?”

I try to speak, feeling the words on the edge of my tongue. It’s so hard, sometimes. No matter how much I want to, I just can’t talk as easily as everyone else. I’m a prisoner in my own head.

“Mary?”

My voice is quiet in comparison to hers. Higher pitched, but so much fainter.

“No, Labyrinth. Doctor Steinbeck was rotated out. I’m Doctor Foster. I’ve been your psychologist for the last three weeks. I’ve told you this before.”

“Oh…”

His voice _is_ deep. Far too deep to be a woman. I have trouble noticing these things sometimes; everything just seems so muted, so quiet, when compared to my world.

I miss Mary. She called me Elle, and she once took the helmet off her suit so that I could see her face. Maybe that’s why she’s not here anymore…

Doctor Foster’s hand twitches, pressing into the palm of his glove. It’s something all of the doctors do every now and then, but I don’t know why. One time, one of the doctors twitched and the room suddenly filled with foam, until I dug it away with my powers. I got told off for doing that, but it hasn’t happened since. I didn’t like the foam; it made my duvet stink for a week, and it got into my hair.

“How are you feeling today?”

And here it starts. The same list of questions every few days, regular as clockwork. ‘How are you feeling today?’ As if they don’t know how trapped I feel, how lonely I am. ‘Have you been feeling any violent urges?’ As if I don’t have to constantly hold my power back from turning my room into a butcher’s shop of blades and blood. ‘Can you solve this math puzzle for me?’ As if it matters, when I’ll never be able to live a normal life. Some of the doctors even admit it. It’s an asylum, not a hospital. They might try to fix me, but they’ll happily settle for keeping me contained.

I answer the questions as best I can, forcing myself to pay attention to the doctor even as my mind drifts back into my world, passing over his half-there spectre. Some of the doctors tried not having me anchor them, to make them easier to see, but they never stayed there for long. I scare people, I know that. It’s why I’m here, why there’s the word VILLAIN written across the shoulders of my black jumpsuit, and down the right leg.

LABYRINTH is written on the jumpsuit’s right breast in the same font. One of the doctors, one of the earliest ones that I can’t quiet remember, told me about what the word means. A maze built beneath a palace on an ancient island, a temple-prison built to hold a single inmate who is fed a steady diet of sacrifices. Sometimes, on my best or my worst days, I feel like I can almost touch that labyrinth, can almost bring it into being just like my world. I think I can feel others too, other worlds pressed against the back of my mind, but I can’t reach them.

The minotaur is stuck in the Labyrinth, but it’s also his home. He can feel safe in his captivity, until the hero Theseus descends to strike him down.

The questions end, and next comes the reward. It’s not like they’ll punish me if I don’t answer, but they will leave me alone in here. By doing what the doctor says, I’ll get to go to the gardens or, if I’m on a good day, I’ll get to visit the low security common room, and talk to some of the people in there. Some of them don’t talk to me when they see I’m in black, but others treat me like a trusted friend, even though they’re in white jumpsuits with HERO written in black letters. Some of them talk to me like I’ve spoken to them before, but it’s… hard to remember people’s faces, especially since my brief visits are separated by weeks at a time.

“You’ve done very well today, Labyrinth. How about a walk? To clear your head?”

“Okay…”

I don’t want to go for a walk. It’s not as interesting as the garden or the common room, but I understand why they do it. It makes it harder for my world to come through, and that makes things safer for everyone around me, even if it means I’ll be barely aware of what’s going on.

I’m vaguely aware of the doctor standing up and walking over to the other side of the room, where he unfolds my wheelchair. He pushes it over, leaving it just a few feet away from me, before standing back and looking down at me expectantly. I start to loosen the chains around my chest, as the leather straps around my limbs retreat back into the chair I created, which in turn sinks back into my bed. Idly, razor blades start to crawl towards the wheelchair, until I push them back with a thought. I take my first step off the bed, feeling the blades pull back from my footprints like ripples on water, and sit down in the wheelchair, only to be immediately pushed out into the corridor by the doctor.

He hands me off to one of the orderlies, one of the guards, who pushes me down through the identical corridors, as I move in and out of awareness. There’s no sense of distance here; every hallway looks exactly the same, and there’s no natural light I could use to tell the time. The only reason I know I’m moving is because I can’t pull my world through. It means I can’t really see the real world, either, just flashes. I’m stuck in my own head.

Eventually, or immediately, the orderly brings me to as stop, and I look up to see a girl, a little older than me, dressed in the same black jumpsuit, with green eyes and ragged dark brown hair. My mouth drops open in a wordless plea, and I see her own mouth open wide in a beaming smile, as she leans down and wraps her arms around me in a painful hug.

“Elle! It’s so nice to see you again! I’ve been extra good today, so they said I could take you for a walk. Isn’t that great?”

I struggle, moving my head up and down with a short nod. It’s better to just play along, it makes things easier. A hand, a doctor’s hand in that same padded suit, rests on her shoulder and, for a second, I see something flash behind her eyes. Immediately, I feel the walls start to rust as jagged strips of metal start to peel off, but I force them back, losing my grip on the real world as I focus on keeping my world away. I mustn’t do anything to set her off.

“Mimi.” The doctor’s voice is calm, and the fire leaves her eyes. “Elle’s not all here at the moment, but I’m sure she’d love to have you push her wheelchair. Why don’t we take her for a walk?”

She steps back, nodding eagerly to her doctor before looking me up and down, a contented smile on her face. I can see her clearly now. I can read the letters on the front of her overalls. BURNSCAR, written in clear white letters across her chest. There are two guards in their white uniforms standing behind the doctor, with bulky backpacks and strange weapons that I’ve never seen used.

Burnscar… Mimi… walks out of sight, but I can still feel her footsteps as she stands behind my wheelchair, starting to push me through the halls. She laughs as she goes, starting to jog before a gentle word from her doctor has her slowing back down to a walk. Then she leans down, still moving forwards, until her head is almost level with my own, and she starts to _talk._

“I did so well today! Sarah, she’s my doctor this month, asked me to try and use my fire to tell a story. I created little people out of flames, and had them recreate Cinderella for us. It was beautiful, Elle. I’ll have to show you the next time they let you visit me in my room. I wanted to do more with the fire, but Sarah said that she’d let us see each other if I didn’t. She’s the best doctor!”

I can’t reply, even if I want to. It’s too hard to string the words together, when it’s not a good day and I don’t have some of my world around me to anchor myself. Burnscar doesn’t mind that I don’t talk back. I don’t think she cares. She likes me, likes to have me near, but I don’t know why. All I know is that it means the doctors know that they can get her to cooperate if they offer me up as a prize, or withhold me to punish her. She burned her doctor to death once and I didn’t see her for a whole two months. I feel guilty for it, but I really enjoyed that time.

What’s worse is that they like to send me to her when I’m on a good day, otherwise tiding her over with little meetings like this one. I hate that, though the doctors say it’s wrong to feel hate. I hate that it takes me away from the common room, keeps me from remembering the kind girl in the white jumpsuit who always remembers my name when she sees me, and don’t seem to mind that I can never remember hers. I hate that they do this to me because they see me as safer than her. They can use me to keep her calm because I’m already behaving, even though they lie to me and say that good behaviour gets rewarded.

Burnscar talks. She talks and talks and talks as she pushes me through the corridors, moving without a destination. At least they didn’t bring me to her room. At least the doctor is here to watch her, the orderlies following us with their weapons in case she loses control again. When they bring me to her cell – and it is a cell, not a room – they leave me there alone with her until they decide it’s been long enough. Most times, she can talk to me normally, and on the best days I can talk back, can keep up with the conversation without needing to force the words out of my mouth.

But Burnscar… Mimi isn’t a nice person. She’s good at pretending, and she’s _trying_ to be better, but she still has her flames, and they make her cruel. A lot of the time, she gets me to make flames for her. Her cell has a temperature sensor, so she can’t use her powers, but she still likes the fire. She makes me find the fire, in a furnace or incinerator, and pull it through into reality, making it cold enough not to set off the temperature sensors.

Sometimes it’s not enough and she’ll create a spark, just a spark, on her fingertips. But it never stops with a spark. She lets herself go when she’s using her fire, she stops worrying about people, or safety, or anything else. Then, when she finally stops using her fire, when she stops holding her burning palm close to my skin, she feels guilty. That guilt drives her back into the arms of her fire, and the cycle never ends.

When I next see past my world to the real one, I’ve been moved back to my cell. The orderly is waiting over me expectantly. The lights in the corridor are dark, which means it’s night time. If I’m not able to get out of my jumpsuit and crawl under the covers of my bed then the orderly will do it for me, with her armoured gauntlets cold against my skin.

I force myself to the here and now, fumbling out of my jumpsuit and into the pink nightshirt that was given to me as a gift by one of my doctors. I used to have a pair of pyjamas, but they were hard to put on at night. Once I’m safely tucked under the covers of my bed, with its plain white bedsheets, the orderly turns and leaves, pausing at the threshold to give me a whispered “goodnight.”

I stare up at the ceiling, as my bed narrows into a cot and stout leather straps start to crisscross my straightjacketed body, until sleep finally takes me, and I lose myself in dreams I never manage to remember.

<|°_°|>

I awake in a panic, as crashes and bangs sound from outside my door. I roll out of my bed and onto my feet, the ground around me twisting and changing as I pull my world into this one. I press my ear against the door, listening to the pounding of footsteps in the corridor outside. I fall backwards, as the pounding vibration of a distant explosion comes through my door. Outside, the footsteps pick up speed and I hear hurried shouts.

“Burnscar’s loose!”

My heart stops in my chest, and I feel my world almost overwhelm me, until I force it back down. Burnscar is loose. She’ll be coming for me. She did the last time, when they kept me away from her for a little too long. I still remember being walked through a corridor as people were carried past me on stretchers, their armour fused to their skin.

I lean back against the door, feeling the metal turn rusted and sharp, and hold my head in my hands. I _can’t_ go through that again. I _can’t._ I shouldn’t have to do it. Why do they make me do it? Why do they make me visit her? I’ve been good! I’ve behaved! Haven’t I earned better than this?

Tears fall down my face, and reflexively my power flexes. Behind my back, the door falls open and I’m left lying on my back in the corridor, a red emergency light spinning above my face. My power acted without me telling it to. I think it knows what I really want to do.

I’m done. I’m done being Burnscar’s toy, being a reward the doctors can hand out for good behaviour. Maybe they’ll take me away from her if I try to escape. It means I won’t get to visit the garden or the common room again, but that’s okay. I can be alone if it means I don’t have to be with her.

I stumble to my feet, staggering unsteadily through the halls while avoiding the roars and screams, the explosions and gunshots. The asylum is breaking apart at the seams, and everyone is too busy to see me, too busy to care.

Until I hear footsteps from around the corner, and I freeze in place as three figures sprint into view. I stand still, staring at them even as they stare at me, as my power reshapes the corridor around me, forming lattices of iron spikes along the walls. I hold it back, as much as I can, and struggle to get the words out of my mouth.

“Please. I just… want… to leave.”

My vision reasserts itself, and I start to really see the three people. They’re different; not inmates in their black or white jumpsuits, not the doctors in their suits or the orderlies in their armour. They’re wearing different clothing, and they seem just as worried as I am. The leader, the one in front, steps forwards. Her face is covered by a metal mask, and she steps into the boundary of my power without fear. Once she’s close to me, she kneels down and looks me in the eye.

“We can get you out, but you have to help us in return.”

I nod my head, as I force my palm to meet her own in a handshake. She stands up, taking my hand in her own, and starts to lead me through the Asylum. I can hear her talking to the other two, a fat man and an orange-coloured boy, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. We come to a wall, and the woman destroys it before ushering me through. I handle the next one, bringing through a door that swings open at the slightest touch.

I don’t know where we are, but I know we must be getting close to the exit. The rooms here are nicer, and there are more common rooms and nice spaces. Low security. Soon these nicer cells give way to offices and receptions, the front of the asylum, and the woman leads me into an enormous atrium with a big glass wall at the front, showing the city beyond.

I haven’t seen the city in… I don’t know how long. I don’t even remember it, not really, but I don’t have the time to look at it right now. The room is full of people; white armoured orderlies mixed in with black armoured soldiers that I can only vaguely remember, standing amongst people in colourful clothing. Capes. There are even a few of the patients in white uniforms. I spot the girl who’s nice to me in the common room, her stick-thin figure dwarfed by a cape in a red outfit.

The woman pulls me aside, behind a pillar, but it’s too late. People are already shouting, screaming, and I can feel them moving into my range, their guns raised in their arms while the capes do a hundred different things. Everyone starts to shout, but I can’t make out any words. All I can think is that I came _so_ close, that the city is right _there._ I came so close…

I fall, deep into my world, so deep that I can only see the real one as faint impressions. I’m standing on tiled floors that used to be white, but have faded and cracked into an off-yellow. They’re stained red with blood in places. I’m still standing in a lobby, but now the has been replaced by a great stone arch, and I can see the towers of some terrible hospital stretched out behind me. I reach out to this world and take it, tethering it to the people I can still feel in the real one.

In an instant, the glass wall falls. Great pillars of stone rise out of the ground, as wrought iron railings cover everybody in the atrium except for me and the three capes who took me here. I don’t even spare the too-thin girl, who’s name I still can’t remember. I feel sorry for her, but she’s trying to stop me from leaving. My iron coils around them, as the room starts to change to more closely mirror my world. I contract the metal, tighter and tighter, until I hear a voice in my ear.

“Don’t kill them. Please. Just hold them. I don’t know your name, but please don’t kill them.”

It takes every bit of effort I have, but the iron stops moving. The people are stuck where it caught them, on the floor, against the walls, even a couple of the capes suspended from the ceiling, but it’s not killing them. I smooth off the spikes, leaving them trapped but unharmed, and try to force my voice out. It feels like swimming through treacle, and I here myself as if from a great distance.

“Elle…”

I feel a hand on my shoulder, then I’m picked up, carried out of the front of the asylum and into the world beyond.

“Let’s get out of here, Elle.”

Every now and then, when I’m really at my best, I feel other worlds pressing against the boundaries of my mind. Better worlds, worlds that I can never reach no matter how hard I try to leave the Bad Place. I can feel them now. I still can’t reach them, but they feel like they’re closer than ever before.


	72. Asylum: 11.01

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you miss me? Sorry about the delay, something came up. Word to the wise, do not drink lemonade while typing up fanfiction on your laptop. Or, if you do, at least remember to keep your fic backed up on some sort of cloud service. Otherwise you'd be right fucked.

Understanding Elle is difficult. When she’s at her worst, it’s hard to see her beneath the vacant expression, the detached look on her face. She retreats off into her own space, and leaves her body in our care. We make sure she eats, make sure she can get through a bath without collapsing, or drowning. We talk to her, even if she can’t hear us, and, at the end of the night, we make sure she falls asleep in her own bed, rather than curled up in whatever corner of the Palanquin she wandered off to.

It means a whole lot of other stuff, too. Stuff you don’t expect. Elle feels safe enough in the Palanquin that she often doesn’t feel the need to change anything, even when she’s at her most distant, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. The carpeted floors of her room will peel back to the floorboards beneath, or turn into checked tiles depicting a labyrinth in mosaic. Sometimes, very rarely, she’ll pull through one of her older worlds, and the space around her will become hazardous, even lethal. It never hurts us, though. Even that far gone, she still recognises that we’ve got her back.

The good days are a little harder to spot. Even at her best, Elle isn’t the most talkative girl in the world. It’s the little things that give her away, the ways in which she responds to questions, or even something as basic as whether her eyes focus on what she’s looking at. Emily is usually the first to notice. Out of all of us, she’s the closest person we have to an actual caretaker for Elle. They’re similar enough in age to be friends on their best days, and Emily has never once complained about sharing a room with Elle, even though I know for a fact that she’s been woken up a couple of times by her bed turning into a sacrificial altar.

Most of the work in finding out how Elle’s doing on any given day is done on the morning, and it used to be something I missed entirely due to spending most of my mornings in my tank, recovering from last night’s drinking. But I’m a little different now; I’ve stopped drinking to get drunk, for one, and started drinking to relax. I’ve started pulling my weight in the mornings, which mostly means whipping up bullshit amounts of bacon and eggs for myself, and far less bullshit amounts of bacon and eggs for everyone else, adding in mushrooms, fried tomatoes, hash browns, black pudding, French toast and all the other component parts of a complete breakfast as and when we have the right ingredients.

It means that when Elle trails into the living room, following in Emily’s wake, I’m there. It means I get to ask the important question.

“Mornin’ Elle. Can I get you something to eat?”

If it’s a bad day, she won’t answer at all. If she’s doing alright, but not wonderfully, she might respond with a simple ‘okay.’ If she’s doing great, though…

“Coco Pops.”

I smile, reaching into the cupboard with one hand while flipping the bacon over with the other. No need to use tongs, not with my claws, but I was very careful to wash my hands first. Emily’s already got out the milk, and Elle has actually got her own bowl out from the cupboards. Todays is a very good day indeed.

I watch Elle eating her cereal, her legs kicking absentmindedly into the empty space underneath the table, while I finish off the frying, piling up my absurd plate of meat and eggs, enhanced by whatever spices we happened to have lying around the place. Smaller, and a hell of a lot healthier, plates are made for the others, just in time for Faultline and Shamrock to step into the room, as punctual as ever.

Gregor and Newter are the last to arrive, and from the look of things Newter has been ragging on Gregor about something. Probably his little heart-to-heart with Shamrock last night. Gregor’s still struggling to come to terms with what we learned about the Nemesis program, and Shamrock seems to have become his shoulder to cry on. I’m convinced that Faultline knows, but she hasn’t said anything to him. I’m not entirely sure, but I think something happened between the two of them a while ago, shortly after the bombings. It’s like Faultline suddenly realised just how far Gregor would go for her.

When someone is prepared to jump off a cliff for you, or whatever the fuck it was, you have to learn to be careful what you say to them. Otherwise they’ll end up killing themselves trying to please you, or they’ll start to take every idle suggestion as an order.

Shamrock, on the other hand, was training to be a vicar or a priestess or whatever the fuck they teach you in a ‘Temple-School.’ She’s pretty much the only person we have who knows anything about pastoral care, and she’s also the only person who’s experienced Cauldron from the inside. She’s also kinder than she lets on, even with all her creepy assassin conditioning. Small wonder, then, that she reached out to Gregor a little after I did.

We don’t have enough room at our table anymore to fit everyone around it. I mean, we would, if I wasn’t here. As it stands, everyone who can sits around the table, while I sprawl out on the long-suffering sofa I’ve claimed as my own. Luckily, I’m more than loud enough not to be left out of the conversation.

Elle kind of drifts though it all, as me, Newter and Emily do more than enough talking for everyone there. Even on her best days, she still struggles a little with following complex conversations. With her power being what it is, it’s easy to get distracted by other things. Luckily, there are smarter heads than ours who can bring her into the conversation.

“You’re looking well today, Elle,” Faultline begins, as our conversations trail off. “Is there anything you’d like to do?”

Elle sits still for a while, idly playing with her bowl of cereal, before looking up at Faultline, at Melanie, with a slight smile on her face.

“I’d like to go for a walk.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Melanie responds, though I can see a little worry in her eyes.

“I’ll take her,” Emily butts in, and Melanie smiles gratefully.

“Thank you. The Boardwalk, Skitter’s territory, is supposed to be safe enough at the moment, but I want you to take Shamrock anyway.”

The Irishwoman nods. Unlike the rest of us, she can protect the girls without screaming from the rooftops that we’re capes. She’s already got a pistol tucked into the waist of her trousers, and with a jacket on nobody will be able to tell she’s armed. A little insurance that was probably always necessary at night, but is now essential. The Bay isn’t what it once was, and it was already pretty shit.

Conversation resumes, and soon everyone’s eaten their fill and is moving off to do whatever they’re doing today, leaving Gregor and Melanie to wash up. I head for the roof, glancing into the girls’ room to see Elle sitting on the edge of her bed, with Emily helping her with her shoelaces. Shamrock is waiting outside the door, dressed in the inconspicuous yet practical clothing that has become the height of fashion in the bay. She nods at me as I pass, and I return the gesture before climbing out of the window and up onto the roof. Used to be I’d have to worry about keeping our presence here a secret, but now I can quite happily spend my mornings taking in the sun.

It's calming, just lying there and watching the clouds pass me by, but it’s not the sort of thing I’ve always enjoyed. Used to be I was a mile-a-minute sort of girl; I lived life in the fast lane, never letting myself stop or slow down even for a second. I’ve never been one for a quiet pint in a country pub, not when there’s shots and nightclubs waiting for me in the inner cities. Sure, sometimes it’s nice, especially after a long day on the road, but it was never what I was really looking for. Certainly not when I was trying to run from my body, trying to find life by puppeting my corpse.

I can’t do that anymore, and I think I’ve become more mellow because of it. I’ve learned to appreciate the quiet times just as much as the ultraviolence, learned to value them more and more as time goes on, as I become less and less like the woman who threw herself into fight after fight after fight, just to feel _something._ Now I can feel the gentle kiss of the sun against my skin, and the slight nip of the wind as it flows over me. I could spend hours like this, so I do.

I doze off after a while. It’s easy, without any road noise or the hustle and bustle of city life, to just drift off when I’m comfortable. When noise does come, I don’t spring up. Instead I just lazily roll myself over until I can see its cause, spotting Faultline poking her head out of the roof access. Though she’ll only be up here for a moment, she’s put on her metal welders mask. Can’t be too careful with your secret identity, after all. Unless you’re like me, and you don’t have to give a shit.

“I hate to interrupt your nap,” Faultline says, though she doesn’t mean it, “but I want to have a word with you and Gregor about our next move.”

I shake myself awake, lumbering along the flat rooftop towards her before following her down the narrow stairwell. Using the windows is much more comfortable when you’re my size, but the boss is always worried that I’ll break the glass so she tells me off whenever she sees me using it. She takes off her helmet the moment we’re back inside. It’s not very helpful, not when she’s still dressed in her armoured costume, but it’s the thought that counts. Everyone who has a costume has been wearing it, recently, unless they’re out on civilian business like the girls. The Merchants could still surprise us, after all.

Gregor is waiting for us in the boss’ office. Used to be I wouldn’t have been invited to talks like this. Used to be the boss didn’t trust me enough. She never thought I was a traitor or anything, I just didn’t meet her standards of professionalism. It’s the same reason Newter and Shamrock aren’t here, even though they’d definitely be interested in this meeting. Well, Shamrock probably is professional enough, but she’s still new.

Faultline steps around her desk, across which she’s spread the pages of Cauldron’s contract. The vials themselves are safely locked in the gun cabinet in her office, along with all the assault rifles, grenades and other highly illegal gear that we’ve been saving for a rainy day. Just because Cape fights are generally non-lethal, doesn’t mean we shouldn’t prepare for the worst. Just in case.

“I’ve been looking through the document some more, and, so far, the best lead we have is the emergency number from the medical section.”

She nods across the table at me while I grin. That’s yet another victory for Khanivore.

“It’s a Philadelphia area code, but the number itself is fake. You might not know this, but there are no private numbers that use five-five-five as a prefix. It’s used a lot in films and television, to ensure they don’t accidentally flood a random line with crank calls.”

“So the number’s fake?”

“No, it’s real. I’ve seen a few groups who have the influence set up networks of numbers using five-five-five, and this looks like it’s no different. The really interesting thing is the Philadelphia area code.”

She quickly scans through the sheets, pulling the one with the number closest to her.

“The number itself is for medical emergencies that happen as a result of taking the vials. Deviations, Case-53s, that sort of thing. It means that whoever’s on the other end of this line has the resources to deal with a problem like that, and in Philadelphia that means…”

“Asylum East,” Gregor rumbles angrily.

“Exactly. There’s no larger concentration of Parahuman medical experts on the East Coast. Cauldron must have some of the staff on their payroll.”

“And the number leads to them?”

“No. The number would lead to a fixer, who would have contact with Asylum East. There’s nothing directly connecting the paperwork to the Asylum, but I’m confident enough to start digging.”

“So what do we do next?” I ask. “Go back to Philly and start busting heads?””

“We do nothing,” Faultline replies, with a small smile at my typically violent suggestion. “It won’t be as easy as spotting which Asylum East employee is on the take. If it was, they’d have been rooted out by PRT internal affairs long ago. But there’s no such thing as a complete cover up.”

She takes a couple of steps, standing in front of the map of the city that covers a whole wall of her office with her hands clasped behind her back. She looks like a general, surveying the battlefield.

“I’ve hired investigators, and called in a few old favourites. They’re digging through the staff at Asylum East, focusing on the one’s who’d be most useful to Cauldron. Orderlies to contain Deviants, surgeons to try and ‘fix’ them, psychologists to help them deal with the long-term effects. They’ll be matching their income with their spending habits, looking for discrepancies. The bribes will have been laundered, of course, so they’ll investigate the next link on the chain, then the next, then the next. Eventually, they’ll get deeper than Cauldron were able to conceal, and we’ll have our mole.”

“And until that happens?” I ask Faultline, who turns to face the two of us with a wry grin on her face.

“Business as usual. We find another job, one that’ll keep us busy for a week or so. At the end of that week, if there’s no news, then we take another. This is a business, after all. We have to turn a profit at some point, otherwise-”

Whatever she’s about to say gets interrupted by the sound of distant screaming. In an instant, Faultline has vaulted over her desk and started sprinting down the corridor, with the two of us hot on her heels. She pulls on her helmet on the run, as we pass Emily and Elle, standing shocked in the living room.

“Masks on!” the boss shouts to them as we pass. “Labyrinth, stay here. Spitfire with us!” The two girls have been in costume since they got back, and Spitfire’s running after us after a moment’s hesitation, fumbling with her gas mask as she pulls it over her face. Newter’s next, bounding ahead of us all as he leaps from wall to ceiling.

We make it down the stairs and into the main room of the club just in time to see our armed sentry stagger through the doorway, screaming at the top of his lungs as his rifle falls limp from his hands. He’s burning from head to toe, bright flames enveloping his black fatigues and body armour as a couple of former Palanquin staff members rush up with fire extinguishers and blankets, and another of our guards sprints to Faultline’s side.

“The rear exit is clear, ma’am.”

“Get the civilians out of here! Take the trucks, and open fire if you need to!”

The doors to the club are a chokepoint, one that could cost us if there’s a flamethrower on the other side. But I know this building, and I know its quirks. It used to have windows running all along the ground floor, but when it got converted into a club, they were all sealed up with plasterboard. Flimsy, weak, and the perfect exit. I leap at the wall, barely aware of any resistance as the old window cracks and splinters around me and I spring off the windowsill and into the harsh daylight, made all the harsher by the inferno burning in the building opposite us.

There’s a woman there, standing in front of the flames in a red dress, her bare feet in a pool of fire that’s spreading out across the road. A mess of brown hair hangs above piercing green eyes, with a row of cigarette burns descending from each in an impression of tears. Faultline, Spitfire, Gregor and Newter pour out of the front door, while Shamrock leaps out of the hole I made, her pistol gripped tightly in her hand.

The woman in the dress holds up a hand, watching almost disinterestedly as she ignites a pinprick of flame that grows and grows into a fireball, throwing it straight at me. I could duck and roll, could do something stupid and try and take it, but instead I sprint forwards, dropping to all fours and getting as low as possible so that the burning projectile passes overhead. I’m not worried about it hitting Shamrock, all I care about is closing the gap.

Flames spread along the ground in front of the cape, rising up into a narrow wall of fire that flares into an inferno, sending me reeling backwards. The wall drops, coalescing into another fireball in her hand before hurling out towards the rest of the Crew. I see Spitfire barely manage to leap out of the way, of the flames, as Faultline looks between her and the Cape with naked fear clear in her stance.

“Spitfire, run!”

With how this bitch is just walking through the flames there’s nothing Spitfire can do to stop her, but I get the feeling Faultline didn’t just tell her to run just because of that. There’s too much fear in her tone, no matter how much she tries to suppress it.

Flames fan out to the left and right of the Cape, covering the road itself and creeping up the buildings behind her before faltering a little as she takes in the heat for another pair of fireballs. Gregor, his arm coated in a thick layer of flame-retardant slime, intercepts one of the fireballs before it can hit the group, but the other traps me and Newter on the other side of the street, cutting us apart from the others without actually hitting anyone.

I spring forwards, leaping over the flames before they have the chance to grow again, and bring down a blade to cut this bitch right down her sternum, only to pass harmlessly through a pillar of flames that envelop her entirely, before dissipating into nothing. For a moment, for a single, stupid, instance, I stand there in shock, until a blast of writhing flames slams into my back, coating me in agonising heat and knocking me to the ground.

I roll, trying to smother the flames as much as I can while springing to my feet, and spot the Cape on the other side of the street. She hurls another fireball at Spitfire’s back as the girl sprints away in terror. I shout a warning, but it’s too late and Spitfire is bowled over by the concussive force of the blast, even as flames play their way across her suit. For a few agonising moments that seem to stretch forever, she lies there, before shakily, _painfully_ , pulling herself to her feet.

More flames rise up around the attacker, enveloping her from head to toe before flickering out into embers and the empty air. Another pillar rises out of the burning ground around Spitfire, and in an instant the Cape is back, her hands wrapped tight around Spitfire’s neck as she presses her into the ground, flames crawling down her arms to envelop Emily even more.

“Get her!” Faultline shouts, smothering her desperation beneath a cold exterior. Shamrock raises her pistol and fires, while Gregor shoots out a jet of slime from his left hand. The fire-retardant substance smothers the flames, sending great clouds of concealing steam up from wherever it makes contact with the flames. An instant later, the steam has risen enough to dissipate, revealing Emily, but no sign of the Cape.

“There!” I’m already sprinting as I shout, as I spot that red dress emerging from the flames five metres back from Spitfire, striding towards her with single-minded focus even as she keeps Emily between herself and the rest of us. I leap through the curtain of fire that separates me from the rest of the group, ignoring the heat and the few flames that stick to me like napalm. The moment I’m through I catch sight of Newter leaping off a building next to me, vaulting over the flames before landing on the ground.

He’s not there for long, just barely long enough to curl his tail around a bag of rubbish and then he’s back up and leaping off the side of the building. I follow his lead, scooping up a vicious piece of broken concrete in one hand as I use my tendrils to sprint forwards. I’m about to throw it when the Cape grabs Spitfire by the throat and starts to drag her off into an alleyway. It hurts, but I let my projectile drop from my hand. I can’t risk it, not when I might brain Spitfire if I miss.

Newter’s far faster than me, however, and he closes the distance, whipping his whole body around to hurl the black sack right at the Cape. It hits her, sending both her and Spitfire staggering backwards without really hurting either of them. Emily manages to slip the grasp of the burning Cape, half-crawling, half-running away. Newter goes in to try and touch the bitch, only to watch helplessly as she drops into the burning pavement and disappears.

I tense up, trying and failing to keep my eyes on every patch of burning ground that litters the street. I’m so focused on my own surroundings that I don’t spot Elle banging on the windows until it’s almost too late, don’t spot the woman rising out of the flames behind Gregor, Faultline and Shamrock. Gregor does notice, however, and I see him throw himself in front of the two women, catching the bulk of the flames on his right arm and his chest as the burning woman shoots twin streams of fire out of her hands like a flamethrower.

She still hasn’t said a word, none of us have. This isn’t like a normal Cape fight, not at all. It’s something different, something worse. Something more like my old life…

I reach down again, snagging another brick, and hurl it towards the Cape even as Newter does the same beside me. He’s throwing as much harmless rubbish as debris, trying to drive her back. I’m trying to kill her. My brick, thrown better than I’ve ever thrown anything in my life, catches her clean on the forehead. It should kill her, should at least knock her unconscious while her brain leaks out through her skull, but instead it just knocks her flat on her back, and she disappears again.

Faultline is burning, the robes and folds of her armoured costume playing host to twisting flames. I can see she’s hurting, but she’s not making a sound. She just stands there as Gregor extinguishes the flames with his slime, her pistol out and ready to fire. We start to shuffle around, none of us saying a word, trying to cover as many of the patches of flame as possible.

I’ve never felt more useless. She’s too fast for me; the moment I get close, she just slips away and shows up again somewhere else. The best I can do is throw shit at her like a fucking teenage kid chucking bricks at passing cars to pass the time.

“Be ready!” Faultline has to shout to be heard over the cracking flames. “Burnscar could attack from any angle!”

It’s a small comfort to know that Faultline knows the name of this cape. It suggests that she might be able to plan around her, that she might know how to stop her. Even if it’s a false hope, it’s still something to cling to.

And then that hope is shattered, as an explosion tears its way through the road, right in the middle of Faultline, Gregor and Shamrock. They’re sent flying, burning, writhing in agony as Gregor’s slime is melted away. Only Shamrock manages to land on her feet, twisting her body right to the limits of human flexibility to land on her feet with her pistol raised and ready to fire.

Faultline pulls herself to her feet even as she burns, while Gregor lumbers up beside her, his whole right-side pink and raw from the flames. He hoses Faultline down again and his skin starts to glisten as flame-retardant chemicals emerge from his pores, coating him in a layer of flameproof grease. The more the fire spreads, the more freedom Burnscar has, the more fire she has to draw from. Gregor is doing his best to stem the tide, to smother the flames that cover the road, leaving Burnscar herself to me and Newter.

We dart in and out as fast as we can, Newter relying on his speed to evade the fireballs while I cope as best I can, dodging what flames I can and catching the ones I can’t on the most armoured parts of my body. I can feel nerve endings going numb as they’re burnt away, but I push the sensation back. I just focus on throwing as much shit at Burnscar as I can.

We’re barely able to keep her from staying still, but with each patch of fire Gregor extinguishes her range of movement gets smaller and smaller, and I get closer and closer to her. I see three bullets hit her torso, but they don’t have a noticeable effect. She twirls, ever so slightly, and through the rips in her dress I spot the tell-tale patterned bruising of a subdermal armour weave. She’s not just a fucking pyromaniac, she’s Spetsnaz; a fighter stuffed full of covert illegal bitek, just like Jessica.

Part of me wants to chuckle at the dark humour of yet another geneered bitch in a dress that wants to kill me, but a stream of fire roasting my left arm pulls me right back to the here and now. I duck and weave as best I can, before giving up and just pushing through the flames to slash at Burnscar with an outstretched tendril. It skitters across her subdermal armour even as it slices a deep gash into her skin itself. Blood starts to drip down, staining her dress an even darker red, but it’s slower than it should be, and it clots within an instant. Shit. These are some really high-spec mods.

I go in for another attack, trying to stab down through her collarbone to pierce her heart, but Burnscar teleports before I get the chance, leaving me to scramble back out of the flames before I’m cooked. When she next shows herself, Gregor is fast enough to spot her, hurriedly angling his stream to catch her right on the chest. Slime pools across her chest, but fires rise up to meet it, filling the air with steam and smoke as the flames fight with the fluid. Shamrock and Faultline pour rounds into the smoky mass, but Faultline is wavering on her feet and I know that Shamrock’s not going to have much of an effect. Sure enough, when the steam clears, Burnscar is gone.

She rises out of a small patch of burning embers that had escaped Gregor’s slime, right behind Faultline. I shout a warning, but it’s too late. Heat is already coalescing in her hand, and she lets it out in another immense explosion the force of which shatters windows all along the first floor of the Palanquin.

The air is filled with smoke and blood, as Faultline screams and lies motionless among the heat-haze. I can’t see if she’s burning or not. Gregor is lying a little way away from her. Even if he’s fireproofed himself, the heat of the flames he’s lying in will be slowly boiling his innards. Only Shamrock escaped, limping with agonising slowness towards a statue that’s started to form from the walls of the Palanquin, as Elle adds her weakened powers in an attempt to do what she can.

While Shamrock and Newter try their best to distract the monster, I rush over to Faultline, not caring about the flames that nip at my heels. I carry her out of there, as she screams at the lightest touch. By the time I’m out of there, she’s screamed herself unconscious. I pat out the flames that have caught on her clothes, but I know it’s too little, too late. The damage is done, whatever damage there is.

Gregor is harder; he’s too heavy for me to carry and he groans in wordless agony as I drag him through the flames and pavement, as the nerves on my legs start to slowly lose feeling. I don’t look at them, can’t bear to look at them. For all I know, I’m held together by nothing more than burnt sinews and scorched bone. But I can’t stop. Not when I see Newter being hit by a fireball, right in the centre of his chest. His screams hurt more than Faultline’s or Gregor’s. Maybe it’s because he’s one of the kids? Maybe it’s because that scream cuts right through the carefree image I have of him?

He’s not screaming because he’s in pain, or not _just_ because of the pain. He’s screaming because he can’t stop Burnscar; he can’t protect the people he cares about.

I’d scream too, if my lungs weren’t already gunked up by smoke. I’m running on just the oxygen reserves in my bloodstream, but that’s no great hardship.

And then something happens. Elle shouts something to Shamrock, but I can’t hear it through the crackling flames, and I can’t see them through the smoke. All I know is that they do something, and suddenly water is flooding across the road, smothering the flames as it goes. Steam rises, and through it I see Shamrock fire two shots at Burnscar, catching her on the side of her forehead and right at the base of her collarbone. The bullets lodge in the mesh, rather than bouncing off it, but that’s all, and Burnscar disappears into fire once again.

I hear another scream, and see Burnscar step out from a burning wall right next to Spitfire, who turns and runs. Shamrock goes to follow, but I wave her back, shouting at her to help the others. With her power, she’s a better fit for it than I am. All I can do is cut and tear and _hurt,_ so I sprint after Burnscar as she chases Spitfire.

I’m faster than Burnscar, but not when she’s teleporting. She’s spreading flames ahead of her as fast as she can, throwing fireballs to gain new room to teleport, but I’m able to draw her attention away from Spitfire with a chunk of masonry thrown into her back. She looks at me like I’m not even there, like I’m just irritating insect she’s about to crush underfoot, and flames pour from the buildings beside me, enveloping the street, enveloping me.

I keep running forwards, as my skin crackles and peels. All I have to do is get close to her, all I have to do is get in one good hit on her heart, her brain, her tendons, even a stomach wound will be fatal given time. It becomes harder and harder to move, as my flesh hardens and splits in the heat and my nerves start to fail me, one by one.

My legs give out, and I fall to the ground, dragging myself forwards with my arms and my tendrils. It’s so hot it’s getting hard to think, so I just carry on with single-minded determination. One good hit, that’s all it takes. That’s all I need. Then they’ll be safe.

There’s a crack, and part of my throat is blasted out in a miniature explosion. With my foggy mind, it takes me a moment to realise what just happened. The battery in Cranial’s voice box overheated, detonating and taking a good chunk of me with it. It’s fine, ignore it; I have to keep going. The box can be replaced by one of the spares, and my dead flesh can be grown back in the tank. But I can’t grow back Emily if this bitch kills her, can’t save Gregor or Newter or Shamrock or Melanie or Elle.

I can’t…


	73. Asylum: 11.02

It’s dark when I finally manage to crawl myself out of unconsciousness, fighting against drowsiness and nausea until my thoughts manage to congregate into some semblance of order. I’m awake, I’m aware, but I still can’t see anything, can’t feel anything except for a gentle resistance against my limbs. I’m floating in a pitch-black void, filled with floating flecks of my own skin that occasionally brush against me. I panic for a moment, before falling back into the natural stillness that became a comfort to me after each and every fight.

Back before all this, I would have busied myself in my puppetted body, throwing myself into drink, into the pounding distraction of a club or the fleeting comfort of a warm body against my flesh. Even afterwards, even now, when that avenue of escapism has been cut off, I still have ways to occupy myself, even if it’s something as simple as looking out of my pod. But I can’t see that now.

A horrible thought crosses my mind; that I might not have managed to save my eyes, and that Blasto’s enzymes can’t restore an organ that complex. The mere thought of that horrible disability is enough to send me flailing in my warm prison, and I flick out a tendril only to hear it rap against a great sheet of metal. A sheet of metal that has replaced the curved glass of the front of the tank. I’m not blind; there’s just no light.

Cautiously, far more calmly than before, I reach out a hand and run it along this new surface, feeling the absence of the computer I used to use to entertain myself, and to open the tank when it was time. That has me panicking again, just a little, so I run my tendril along the walls of my tank until they brush up against the simple handle of the manual release. Good; I’m not trapped in here.

But I shouldn’t leave yet. I still can’t feel anything on my skin: no nerves, no stings or scrapes, just the dull pressure of the fluid itself. I run the palm of my hand along my torso, feeling pockmarks and flaking chunks of burned and dead flesh, flesh that almost comes away in my hand. This is bad, worse than I thought – though I wasn’t really thinking about the consequences at the time.

I stop moving, letting myself float aimlessly for a few minutes, before starting to slowly, painstakingly, twitch the muscles of each individual finger. There was a time, a lifetime ago, when I would have had Ivrina here to talk me through it, running through the post-battle checks as she jots everything down on her tablet, making note of which parts could heal naturally, which could be fixed by surgery and which would need to be replaced by new flesh purpose-grown by Jacob and Karran.

Now, of course, only the first option is viable, and I wince at every damaged nerve ending I find. In spite of my worst fears, however, the damage isn’t nearly as bad as it presumably looks. Sure, I’ve lost almost all my skin, but the muscles beneath the skin are still protected by burnt and crusty flesh, or by raw new flesh that’s only just beginning to poke through. My central nervous system itself, and the vast majority of my muscles, have escaped intact. All I have to do is stay here and wait for a few days while my skin knits itself back together, and I’ll be almost as good as new.

Except I can’t do that, can I? I don’t know what happened when I was out, don’t know who that burning bitch was and why she decided to attack us. Don’t know who installed her subdermals, all that bitek reinforcement she had running through her body. I don’t even know if she’s still out there, or if she has friends who are still fighting the others right this second. All I have is a name; Burnscar.

There’s nothing for it. I reach out and pull down the emergency release lever, feeling the thick fluid pooling past me as it drains away, and the locks on my now-metal door disengage with heavy clunks. I haul it aside, flopping out unsteadily onto the wooden floor of my room, dripping the last remnants of pinkish fluid onto the already-stained surface as I pull myself unsteadily onto all fours. It takes a few moments, as I stretch out my limbs and get used to controlling them again but eventually I can move fluidly enough, so I set out into the corridors to find the others, idly snatching up one of the spare voice boxes from their shelf and bringing it up to my throat, to the opposite side of the half-melted remains of the one it’s replacing.

I can hear them talking in hurried voices in the main room of our part of the Palanquin, but I can’t hear anyone else. These past few weeks, I’ve grown just as used to the sounds of all the other people living here as I used to be to the chatter of the staff, or the relentless pounding of the music. This near-silence is unnerving by comparison, and it turns to total silence as I step out into view.

The others, with the merciful exception of Emily and Elle, are a mess of burns. Newter’s chest is scarred and bandaged in plasticky dressings that’ll hold him together without sticking to the burns. Faultline’s face is unhealthily red, and I can see burns running up and down her arms from where the fabric of her costume ignited. The parts of Shamrock’s face that are exposed by her costume are red and raw, but I can’t tell if she was burnt anywhere else. Given that she’s still wearing her skin-tight number, it seems unlikely. Gregor has the worst of it. He’s always had a few shell-like growths on his translucent skin, the source of his nickname ‘the Snail.’ All of his right arm and a lot of his chest is now covered in those shells like armour, and the skin around the growths is red and raw. It’s a side to his powers that I’d never known.

“You look like shit,” Newter remarks, breaking the silence as he pulls a camouflaged smock out of a crate in the middle of the room, slipping it on over his burnt chest. The others are pulling out similar pieces of clothing, raiding Faultline’s stores for something that’s a little more fire resistant.

“Are you sure you should be up and about?” Faultline asks me, hints of concern in the edges of her tone.

“It’s surface damage,” I reply, even as I see their eyes roving up and down what must be a fucking horrifying sight. Haven’t actually seen it myself yet. “The new skin is a little sore, but I can work through soreness.”

“If you’re certain,” she replies, in a tone that’s dripping with doubt. At least she respects me enough not to stop me going altogether. I know enough to recognise when we’re gearing up for war. Sure enough, Faultline immediately starts filling me in on what I’ve missed.

“We’ve received invitations to a truce meeting from both Fenrir’s Chosen and the Pure, to coordinate a response to the Slaughterhouse Nine.”

“The Slaughterhouse Nine? That’s who that bitch was?”

Memories rise unwanted in my mind, of that empty town in Utah. Of the glass shattered in every window of every home, of the buildings sealed up behind warning signs and PRT logos. Of the human fingerbone I found by the side of the road, with no sign of how it got there or where the rest of the body went. A town of two and a half thousand people, if I guessed right, turned into an empty wasteland by a band of parahuman serial killers. And now, they’re here. Now they’re after us.

“The fuck are they doing here?” I demand, desperation and a hint of fear creeping into my words.

“They’ll be trying to recruit another member. It’s the only reason they come to cities. One of them must have died, so they’re out here looking to test suitable recruits.”

“So who…” I can’t bring myself to say it, can’t bring myself to suggest that one of the people I care about was deemed a ‘suitable candidate’ for a band of fucking serial killers.

“Nobody,” Faultline replies immediately, and I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding in, feeling it whistle out through a hole in my throat I didn’t know I had. Must have been where Cranial’s tech blew up. That fucking thing must have had one hell of a battery.

“When Elle was in Asylum East, the staff used her as an enticement to get Burnscar to cooperate.” I can’t help but notice the flinch from the small girl, though she seems far too out of it to be following along. A far cry from how she was doing before… “If I had to guess, I’d say Burnscar came here looking to talk to her ‘friend,’ rather than to recruit her, but Elle is in no state to tell us what happened.”

Nobody talks after that. They just go back to rummaging around in the crates Faultline has dragged out of her office. It doesn’t take me long to figure out what they’re doing; they’re covering up their burns as best they can. Faultline has traded her flowing robes, with all their flammable folds, for utilitarian camouflage trousers and a smock with a hood that fits neatly around her welding mask. Newter’s covered his chest up with his own jacket, but he’s left his hands and feet free. Shamrock’s only concession to the style is a hood folded around her head, covering the lower half of her face and hiding her red hair from view.

I bring my right arm up to my face, seeing for the first time my pockmarked skin, charred almost black in some places while others are almost pink, fresh and raw. At least the exoskeleton held, though it’s scorched quite thoroughly. Faultline reaches into her chest and throws something over to me, a large sheet of green tarpaulin.

“Here,” she says. “It should keep the air off your skin a little, and it’ll hide the worst of the burns.”

I nod gratefully, wrapping myself in the tarpaulin in a vague attempt at creating a cloak, before Shamrock comes over and helpfully arranges it into something far more comfortable to move around in, something that won’t fall off my shoulders the first time it meets a stiff breeze.

“You’re good at this,” I remark in surprise as I try to catch sight of myself in a mirror, only to see that they’ve all been taken off the walls, and someone’s knocked all the glass out of the windows. Wonder what that’s about?

“Thank you,” Shamrock replies, with a hint of pride in her voice. “I had to fold a lot of ceremonial robes back in the Temple-school. Cloaks are similar enough.”

“I’d say it looks good, but someone’s taken down all the mirrors and glass. What’s that about?”

“One of the Nine,” Faultline answers, “Shatterbird, is a silicakinetic. She likes to announce herself by explosively shattering every piece of glass in the city. I took precautions.”

And thank fuck you did. Last thing I’d want is to be killed by the glass of my own suspension tank. Still, I don’t think she’s sung yet. I’d definitely have heard the explosive destruction of every scrap of glass in the city.

As we leave the Palanquin, on our way to a meeting about monsters worse than I can even comprehend, monsters that make Dicko look like the fucking Pope, I can’t help but wonder just what the fuck we’re getting into.

<|°_°|>

I think this is the first time I’ve ever been on a boat. I’ve been on a ship before, once, when we took the ferry from Liverpool to Belfast in an ill-planned attempt to take our show across the seas, but I’ve never been on a small boat like this before. Part of it is nauseating, the way we’re buffeted about by every stray patch of water, but it’s also a little fun as well.

The water itself isn’t natural. It’s a circular lake at the centre of the city, formed by such immense force that I can’t even begin to comprehend it. It’s not fed by any river, and it doesn’t flow out to sea, but there’s a current all the same. The surface of the lake is a cauldron of clashing wakes and hidden undertows, as burst water mains and sewers flood in through dozens, if not hundreds of pipes, those same breaches carrying the water out through submerged storm drains to the sea. Every now and then, some scrap of masonry pokes out of the water, the tip of great icebergs of concrete and steel that twist the current even more.

Leviathan made this lake. I don’t know how the monster managed to do it, but I don’t need to know. The evidence is all around me. A single creature, a single entity, with the strength to shatter a city, to turn it from a functional shithole into this twisted hellscape. It’s terrifying to think that if we hadn’t been half a continent away then we might have had to face it. We’d never have sought it out, of course, not for all the money in the world, but something this big would probably have dragged us in, all the same.

We’re crossing the water in two motorboats, little rubber things that feel like they shouldn’t be able to support my weight. I guess it’s more than a little telling that I’m only sharing mine with Faultline and Labyrinth, while everyone else is in the other one. Ahead of us, a light breaks the darkness, a sequence of four flashes, followed by a single long burst. In the other boat, Shamrock is already signalling our response with a torch, as we get closer and closer to the meeting point.

Fenrir’s Chosen have set this meeting up on top of the most intact building in the lake, on top of a half-sunken rooftop that acts as a beach for our boats. The Pure are there as well, with Purity herself floating in the air, having served as their lighthouse. It doesn’t surprise me that the Chosen have set themselves up at the far end of the rooftop, the highest point from the rooftop. What does surprise me is that the Pure didn’t object, even if Purity herself is hovering in the air well above Hookwolf, no doubt keeping an eye out for the other factions.

The Chosen have taken steps to conceal as much of their skin as possible, just like we have, but I can still see a web of scars on any patch that’s been left uncovered. They’ve been hit by one of these psychopaths, just like us. I can’t help but turn my eyes towards Hookwolf, or, more specifically, to the empty space at his right hand, where Cricket had been standing when I met them in the fighting pits. I still haven’t told anyone about her, and every now and then I’ve been gripped by sudden stabs of fear as I picture the full force of the Chosen slaughtering their way through the Palanquin in retaliation.

Faultline nods to Hookwolf, before guiding us over to a spot on the side of the building, opposite the Pure and just a little below the Chosen. Hookwolf returns the gesture, before turning to look at the pitch-black lake as Purity flashes a signal overhead, receiving an answer from another two boats that rush up to the rooftop beach. The Undersiders, looking none the worse for wear. It’s possible they didn’t get any visits from the serial killers; I can’t see a bunch of kids being useful to that lot. Then again, it’s equally possible that their visitors were simply far less brutal than our own.

Another signal from Purity, but this time the answer is far less subtle. Out on the water, a truly hideous boat suddenly lights up the lake with floodlights and flashing coloured bulbs strung across its hull like decoration on a Christmas tree. A cacophonous din of engines, sirens and crackling electricity echoes along the surface of the lake, and everyone present tenses up as the fucking Merchants stride ashore like conquering heroes.

“Hey,” Hookwolf growls down at them, “What part of keep a low profile don’t you fucking understand?”

He’s playing right into Skidmark’s hands and, sure enough, the junkie bastard flashes Hookwolf a grin filled with rotting and shattered teeth.

“We did. My Squealer built a box that cancels out light and noise at a certain distance. Nice and in your face up close, almost invisible and silent when far away. Isn’t that right, baby?”

His use of ‘my’ sickens me, even as the woman herself smiles and strikes what she probably thinks is a coquettish pose. Her stick thin figure, flaunted by her jean-shorts and crop-top, sickens me and I don’t know whether to fell sorry for her or be disgusted by her. Given what she’s done, the shit I saw at the Merchant’s initiation, I’ll settle for disgust.

And then Skidmark’s smirk, his childish little victory over Hookwolf, falls from his face as he sees Faultltine, before narrowing into a scowl as he spots me. I wonder if his balls have come out of hiding since I gave him my little farewell tap?

“Hey, Faultline,” He snarls, “What the motherfuck were you doing, fucking with my party?”

Faultline isn’t fazed, even as Skidmark storms across the rooftop towards us. If he gets within six feet, I’m gutting him. Truce or no truce.

“You had something we needed,” the boss responds, like she’s talking about the weather.

“Who hired you, bitch? Tell me and my Merchants won’t come after you in revenge. All you have to do is return that shit you stole or pay me back for it. Maybe you can spit-polish my knob for a little goodwill.”

It takes all I have not to spring forward and eviscerate him for that alone. I have to force myself not to step forward, not to show that he’s getting to me in any way at all. If I don’t, then he gets another petty victory to add to his belt. I’ll suck you off if you want, you bastard, but I’ll warn you now that you won’t like it. I’m all teeth.

“Not going to happen.”

“Then forget sucking my cock. Pay me back and tell me who hired you and we’ll call it even.”

The Merchants, some of them still battered and bruised from the arse-kicking we gave them, start to fan out behind their leader, looking like they’re about ready to fight. We’re not so obvious, but I know that everyone’s ready to jump in if the boss gives the word. Except she doesn’t give the order. All she does is shake her head dismissively.

“You’re mercenaries. Don’t tell me you don’t have the cash. I’ll only ask for five mil. One for each vial you took.”

We must have really fucking rattled him; here he is, not ten metres from the Pure and the Chosen, who, on top of being white-supremacist shits, have been in open warfare with the Merchants for close to a month now, and all he can focus on is us. Looks like we really shattered whatever delusions of invincibility he had.

“Did we really need to invite him?” Faultline asks Hookwolf, no longer giving Skidmark the courtesy of her attention. “Does he contribute _anything_ to the discussion?”

“He has nine powers on his team,” Hookwolf responds, as if that’s the be all and end all, “Ideology isn’t important.”

“He doesn’t _have_ an ideology. He’s just an idiot.”

Less elegantly put than I’d expect, but it really does cut to the heart of the matter. All Hookwolf sees is powers. So long as you’ve got one, you’re worthy of attention in his eyes. It’s the same with all these other arseholes. But Faultline doesn’t think like that. Don’t get me wrong; she’s still focused on powers, but she has an entirely different approach to things. Hookwolf doesn’t care that the Merchants are about as well-coordinated as a sack full of alley-cats that’ve been dumped in the Thames, but the boss does. Hookwolf has a strong power, but the boss has had to trick and game her way past every enemy who didn’t do her the courtesy of showing up in power armour. It means she’s used to exploiting her abilities, and those of her team, to their fullest extent. If the Merchants did the same, then their nine capes would actually be worth something in her eyes.

Hookwolf snarls something about this being neutral ground, and the Merchants move over to the opposite side of the rooftop to us. Faultline simply leans over, to whisper in Shamrock’s ear.

“If he makes a move, I want you to warn us _before_ it happens.”

Shamrock nods, her usual stoic self, as another burst of flashes from overhead signals the arrival of the Travellers. They clamber up onto the roof, having travelled on the back of Genesis. The girl herself has taken on the shape of some sort of sea serpent spliced together with a turtle, and she smiles at me with a mouth full of predatory teeth as I grin back at her. They’re shortly followed by Coil, who’s probably decided to be fashionably late since he knew Hookwolf would take the top spot, and with that Purity floats down to join the rest of her group.

“It seems everyone is here,” Coil begins, taking a small victory by being the one to open the meeting. “Forty-ish of us, in all.”

“Not quite everyone,” Hookwolf retorts, “Victor, Othala.”

The two chosen capes step forwards, Othala laying a hand on her squeeze as Victor sends a trio of fireballs up into the sky. It’s a minor play, getting one over on Coil, but it could be so much more.

“Who are you signalling?” Purity demands, light coalescing in her hands.

“It would be a grave and stupid mistake if you invited the Nine.” Coil gives voice to what everyone’s thinking, who everyone’s fearing. I start to eye the Chosen capes, determined to take at least one of them down with me. Not like I’d be able to do anything against the Nine, if they’re even _half_ as bad as everyone’s acting, but I’m not about to go down without a fight.

“We’re not stupid,” Hookwolf responds but offers no explanation as three flashes answer his signal from an incoming boat. Everyone, with the exception of the Chosen, turns to either the shore or the top of the building, ready for a fight. I do the same, until I hear the rest of the Crew standing down around me and see the Protectorate climbing out of the boat, taking their own place in our little circle.

The only hero I recognise is Weld, but I’ve not been paying the local heroes nearly as much attention as I probably should have. They’re led by a woman in a close-fitting military uniform, with an American flag bandanna covering the lower half off her face. She’s holding a pistol in her hands, until it flickers in a flash of green and shifts into a shotgun, the very same model of shotgun that Shamrock’s holding. Behind her and Weld are a man and a woman, or a boy and a woman, dressed in white and blue skintight outfits respectively. The last guy has a helmet in the shape of a golden lion, with golden armour plates fitted to his white outfit.

“It seems we have a problem,” GI Jane speaks, as I discretely nudge Gregor, receiving a whispered ‘Miss Militia’ for my troubles. He knows me so well.

“We do. Two problems, actually.” Hookwolf fixes the heroine with a determined look.

“Two?” Purity asks, giving voice to the question that’s on everyone’s lips.

Hookwolf points at the Travellers, before dragging his finger across to the Undersiders.

“They’re being cocky, think they’re being clever.”

I tune him out. It’s pretty much what I expected. Hookwolf has his dick out and he’s waving it at the Travellers and the Undersiders. Grue and whatever the fuck the prick in the top hat are called get their dicks out in turn, and start waving them right back. Hookwolf’s all pissed that the Undersiders and Travellers have been taking over the city by stealth, the Undersiders and Travellers don’t give a shit what Hookwolf thinks, but now this big fucking crisis has come to town and it looks exactly like the upstarts have been exploiting that crisis for personal gain. I’m so sick of this shit.

Whether it’s true or not doesn’t fucking matter. I certainly don’t give a damn, but to everyone else it’s suddenly become a question as to whether or not they want to throw their all up against the Nine, only to find their turf has been stolen from beneath their feet by teenage burglars and nomads who’ve suddenly discovered ambition. At least during the ABB bombings all these men conducted their pissing contests discretely. Now an arguably worse threat has come to town, and neither side are willing to budge.

“We already know they’re taking territory,” Miss Militia butts in, trying to bring things back to the matter at hand. “This isn’t a priority. The Nine-”

“They haven’t taken territory. They’re taking the _city._ Split it up all nice and proper between them, and now they’re taking advantage of the distraction the Nine are giving them to secure their positions before we fucking catch on.”

I have to say, he’s not exactly wrong. The Undersiders and Travellers have been making moves for weeks now, but only a few of them have been so bold as to actually declare a territory as theirs. Until recently, that is. Over the last few days, they’ve been launching lightning raids, claiming up huge amounts of empty land as they force out the weaker players. It’s a bold move, but one that’s not sustainable. At the moment, they’re spread too thin. They’re vulnerable.

But then the Nine come along, and suddenly all the villains have to play nice with each other. Suddenly the Chosen, the Pure, the Merchants or even the bloody Protectorate can’t make a move against them, while the Undersiders and the Travellers get all the breathing space they need to secure their hold and reinforce their position. That vulnerable window closes, and the city, or large parts of it, is theirs. They couldn’t have timed it better if they tried, unless they planned all this from the start.

“We didn’t know the Nine were around before we put this into motion.” Tophat – Trickster, was it? – tries to deny the worse crime, but in doing so reveals his scheme.

“So Hookwolf is right.” Purity leaps on the admission, and another faction turns against the would-be overlords. “You _are_ taking over.”

“Something like that.” Part of me feels a little sorry for Grue. He clearly doesn’t want to admit to this, but after what his ally said he’s got no choice but to double down.

“This isn’t of any concern to us.” Miss Militia’s tone is stern, and there’s anger and frustration in her eyes. “The only reason we’re here is to get information on the Slaughterhouse Nine, their motives and strategies for responding.”

“That might help you in the next week or two, but a month from now you’ll be regretting it.” Hookwolf’s made his pitch to the gangs, now he’s pitching to the Protectorate. Better to have a city divided by rival gangs you can control than united under one banner. I don’t think she’ll buy it.

“Quite frankly, I don’t think we have any other choice.”

“We do. They want us to lose out territories to them while we busy ourselves dealing with the Nine-”

“That’s _not_ our intent,” Trickster shouts, cutting Hookwolf off even as Skidmark cuts him off in turn with a terse “Pigshit.” To my disgust, I find myself agreeing with the sentiment. Regardless of whether it was their intent or not, and I wouldn’t put it past someone as slippery as Tattletale, it’s what’s happening. They’ve already moved, plans are already in motion, supplies and personnel are presumably on route to the city. It’s too late now to stop their ploy even if they actually wanted to, and I have my doubts about that.

“Then agree to a truce.” Hookwolf ignores Skidmark’s outburst, fixing Trickster with a stare. Between him and Grue, he’s clearly worse at this game. “So long as the Nine are here, you’re hands off your territories, no fighting, no business. We can arrange something, maybe you all stay at a nice hotel on the Protectorate’s tab until this is dealt with. That’ll mean we can all focus on the _real_ threat.”

They’ll never go for the hotel thing, but there’s just enough in that offer to hurt them if, _when_ , they refuse. If they reject the offer, they reject the idea of avoiding fighting and business during a crisis. They signal that this is a land grab, and that they are going to exploit the Nine to secure their territory. Of course, they could negotiate, compromise. That’d sort this all out, but when have I ever seen a Cape compromise on anything?

“I’m inclined to agree,” Coil speaks for the second time this meeting, his calm tone contrasting with Hookwolf’s impassioned arguments. “Perhaps now is an opportune time to share this information: I have sources that inform me that should Jack Slash survive his visit to Brockton Bay, it bodes ill for everyone.”

“That’s vague,” Faultline murmurs, and I find myself agreeing with her. I wish all these bastards would just fucking explain things, rather than playing silly buggers because all this cloak-and-dagger shit gets them hard.

“I’ll be more specific. Should Jack Slash not die before he leaves Brockton Bay, it is very likely the world will end in a matter of years.”

I can’t help it; I snort with laughter. That has to be the most melodramatic thing I think I’ve ever heard. It’s like I’ve walked onto the set of a fucking Bond movie.

“You contacted us to say something very similar a couple of days ago,” Miss Militia humours the dramatic mastermind, “but I have the same questions now that I did then. Do you have sources? Can you verify this? Or provide more information?”

Behind her, Weld pulls a phone out of the pocket of his shorts and starts typing something. Strange; I always thought he was the ideal professional cape, but fiddling with your phone isn’t the best thing to do in a meeting.

“More information? Yes. I have sought further details and pieced together a general picture of things. Jack Slash is the catalyst for this event, not the cause. At some point in the coming years, Jack Slash kills, talks to, meets or influences someone. This causes a chain of events to occur, leading to the deaths of anywhere from thirty-three to ninety-six percent of the world’s population.”

Everyone quiets down at that, and doubts start to creep in at the back of my mind. What the fuck does that even mean? Where the fuck is this even coming from? Tattletale? Some other fucking Cape who thinks they can see the future?

“If Jack Slash is killed, the event is likely to occur at some point in the more distant future instead.”

Why the fuck does everyone look like they’re taking him _seriously?_ The man’s talking about Armageddon, for fuck sake! That’s the kind of shit you’d see in a bad disaster movie, not real bloody life!

“Dinah Alcott.” Weld’s voice cuts through the stunned silence, as he looks up from his phone. Whatever that means, it’s certainly stumped Coil.

“Beg pardon?”

“Thursday, April fourteenth of this year, Dinah Alcott was kidnapped from her home and has not been seen since. Dinah had missed several weeks of classes with crippling headaches in the months before her disappearance. Investigation found no clear medical causes. Police interviewed her friends. She had confided to them that she thought she could see the future, but doing so hurt her.”

Kidnapped. My mind latches onto the word, until it’s all I can think about.

“You think Dinah is Coil’s source.” Miss Militia responds to her subordinate. “That makes a lot of sense.”

She takes a half-step forwards, shotgun gripped tightly in her arms.

“ _Coil._ ”

“I did not kidnap her,” he lies. “I offered Dinah training and relief from the drawbacks of her abilities on the contingency that she immediately cut off all contact with her family and friends and provide me a year of service. She took a week to decide, then contacted me during one of her attacks.”

Even if this bullshit is true, he took advantage of her in a moment of weakness. I’m so fucking sick of this shit: The Ambassadors, Rotten Apple, Cricket, Purity, Squealer, Jessica and now Dinah bloody Alcott. Why is there always a girl? Why do I keep running into the same shit, the same people, over and over again? Why does the whole fucking world conspire to torment me like this?

“Could I contact her to verify this?”

“No. For one thing, I have no reason to let you. Also, the process of gaining control of her power requires that she be kept strictly isolated from outside elements. A simple phone call would set her back weeks.”

Coil shoots Miss Militia down. I know he’s bullshitting her, he knows it, she probably fucking knows it, but there’s not a goddamn thing that she can do about it. That girl belongs to him now and I’ve seen Coil, seen men like Coil, enough times to know that he’ll never let her go now that he has his claws in her.

“So Coil has a precog,” Hookwolf rumbles contemplatively, like he’s finally seen inside the fake compartment in the magicians hat. “That explains how he always seemed to fucking get the upper hand when he pit his mercenaries against the Empire.”

I’m not sure I like his conclusions; I saw Coil’s guys fight, and they’re plenty good enough on their own. Powers aren’t everything, not that Hookwolf would ever see it that way. He’d rather just chalk it up to a Cape.

“I knew you might come to these conclusions if I volunteered this information. You all should already know I am not a stupid man. Would I weaken my position if I did not wholeheartedly believe that what I was saying was correct? _Jack Slash must die, or we all die._ ”

Fuck. And then there’s this bullshit hanging over our heads. I got so busy dealing with the fucking mess that is my memories that I almost let the end of the fucking world slip my mind. You know what? I can’t even wrap my head around this shit, so I won’t bother. Whatever the fuck is going to happen, it’ll depend on people far more powerful than I am, far more influential. Let the heroes worry about this shit; it’s what they’re for.

After all, I’m no stranger to living fifteen minutes from death.

“And to maximize our chances for this to happen, the alliance of the Travelers and the Undersiders must concede to our terms. They hold no territory until the Nine are dead.”

Hookwolf has laid down the law. The established gangs need a guarantee that they won’t have their territory taken out from under them, and the only way to do that is for the Undersiders and Travellers to take one for the team. The question is how ambitious are they? Are they willing to sacrifice future gains for the sake of a distant Armageddon?

“I think this makes the most sense,” Coil chimes in, meaning the alliance has the whole city against them.

“Easy decision for you guys to make,” Trickster chuckles a little in morbid humour, “you’re not giving anything up. In fact, if we went with your plan, there’d be nothing stopping you from sneaking a little territory, passing on word to your underlings to prey on our people, consolidating your forces and preparing them for war, all while we’re cooped up in that hotel or wherever.”

They’re not going to do it, are they? What the fuck will that mean for all of this? Will the coalition collapse? Will the Undersiders and Travellers fight us even as we’re fighting the Nine? Will the Chosen, the Pure and the Merchants forget the Nine to fight the alliance?

“No.” Grue’s denial cuts clearly through the air, and it all falls apart.

“No?” Coil sounds shocked, disbelieving. I thought these fuckers worked for him? Maybe they broke away, maybe that’s why they went from small time crooks to large time gangs?

“We’ll help against the Nine. That’s fine, sensible. But Trickster is right. If we abandoned our territories in the meantime, we’d be putting ourselves in an ugly situation. That’s ridiculous and unnecessary.”

“If you keep them you’ll be putting yourself in an _advantageous_ position,” Purity’s tone isn’t as openly hostile as Hookwolf’s. She sounds like she’s genuinely trying to persuade them to cooperate.

“Don’t be stupid, Undersiders, Travelers,” Faultline steps forwards, hammering home how dire things are. She doesn’t get involved in local politics, not unless she has to.

“You can’t put money, power and control at a higher priority than our collective survival. If Coil’s precog is right, we have to band together against the Nine the same way we would against an Endbringer. For the same reasons.”

Fucking hell. This is a side to the boss I’ve never seen before. A side I didn’t think she had.

“And we _will,_ ” Trickster counters, a hint of desperation in his voice, “we just won’t give up our territory to do it.”

“Because you’re hoping to expand further and faster while the Nine occupy the rest of us. We agree to this like you want, and you attack us from behind.”

“We haven’t given you any reason to think we’ll betray a truce,” Grue’s voice is tinted by anger as he responds to Hookwolf, but it’s not going to work. They’re holding a dagger behind the backs of the other gangs, and trying to get them to believe they won’t use it.

“You have. You’re refusing the terms.”

There’s a hint of finality in Purity’s voice, but that’s not enough to stop the argument. Grue and Trickster go back and forth against Hookwolf, with neither side willing to budge from their positions. It seems like this coalition is going to be smothered in the crib, so the heroes try one last desperate roll of the dice.

“I would suggest a compromise.”

Thankfully, Miss Militia carries enough respect to silence the argument.

“The Undersiders and Travelers would move into neutral territory until the Nine were dealt with. But so would the powered individuals of the Merchants, the Chosen, the Pure, Coil and Faultine’s Crew.”

Unfortunately, her solution isn’t any better. There’s not enough neutral ground left in the city to contain all these egos.

“Where would this be?” Hookwolf asks. “In the PRT headquarters?”

“Perhaps.”

“You were attacked as well, weren’t you? Who did they go after?”

“Mannequin went after Armsmaster. Armsmaster was hospitalized.”

The Nine decided that the head of the bloody Protectorate would be a good fit for their merry band of serial killers? I fucking hate this city.

“What you suggest is too dangerous,” Faultline brings everyone’s attention back to the heroes’ plan. “We’d all be gathered in one or two locations for them to attack, and if Armsmaster was attacked, we could be too.”

“And their whole reason for being here is recruitment,” Coil adds. “Perhaps the plan would work if we could trust one another, but we cannot when many here were scouted for their group, and may turn on their potential rivals to prove their worth. We would be vulnerable to an attack from within, and we would be easy targets.”

“We could make the same arguments about ourselves,” Grue points out, not unfairly. “If we agreed, we’d be sitting ducks for whoever came after us.”

“I think the Protectorate can help watch and guard _nine_ people,” Coil’s response is dismissive, but there’s a grain of truth in it as well. “I’m less confident of their ability to protect everyone present.”

“No,” Hookwolf decides. “I’m afraid that _compromise_ won’t work.”

So that’s it, then. Thanks to these bastards and their fucking egos, on _both_ sides, things have gone to shit. I don’t know why it’s affecting me so much; maybe it’s because I’m so used to this fucking attitude from pretty much every authority figure I’ve ever met? They’re all the same, only thinking with their cocks.

“It seems,” Hookwolf speaks, after the silence has grown thick enough to cut, “the Travelers and the Undersiders won’t agree to our terms for the truce. Merchants, Pure, Faultline, Coil? Are you willing to band together with my group?”

Skidmark, Purity and Coil all nod their heads, but the boss doesn’t. I don’t know why.

“You’re saying no, Faultline?” Hookwolf’s words echo my thoughts.

“We’re mercenaries. We can’t take a job without pay. Even a job as important as this.”

“We’re prepared to meet your rates for the duration.”

The offer didn’t come from Coil, though it looks like he was just a moment too late. Instead, it’s Miss Militia who meets Faultline’s gaze, as Weld looks pointedly at me. Faultline nods, and with that, the pact is sealed. I have to say, I didn’t think they had it in them. It’s good to know that they’re taking this seriously.

“And Miss Militia?” Hookwolf asks, showing the female hero a lot more respect than he did Trickster, even though neither of them fit his Aryan ideal. “A truce? For you and your…” he seems to struggle to find the right word, “contractors?”

“Keep the business to a minimum, no assaulting or attacking civilians. We still have to protect this city, there’s no give there. Don’t give us a reason to bother with you, and we’ll be focused wholly on the Slaughterhouse Nine in the meantime.”

“Good. That’s all we ask.”

The leaders of this new coalition, Hookwolf, Purity, Skidmark and Coil, move across to shake each other’s hands, putting on a show for the benefit of the Undersiders and the Travellers, who are slowly moving towards the beach. Miss Militia moves her heroes up and to the side, in-between the two groups, and Faultline leads us over to support them.

“You guys are making a mistake,” Grue threatens, as the tension rises yet again and everyone gets ready for the Undersiders and the Travellers to attack.

“I think you have things the wrong way around,” Hookwolf gloats. “Nobody wants to break the peace at neutral ground, so perhaps you should leave before things get violent?”

“You won’t let us stick around and discuss the Nine, who they attacked, what our overall strategies should be? Even if we aren’t working together as a single group?” Tattletale, the power behind the throne, finally adds her two cents to the discussion. “You know, the smart thing to do?”

That last comment was directed at Faultline, but the boss doesn’t budge. Even if we weren’t under contract now, I don’t think she would have done anything. Not because of any great rivalry, though I’m sure she still finds Tattletale as repugnant as ever, but because they’ve made their bed, and now they have to lie in it.

The Undersiders and the Travellers slink off into the night, leaving two groups standing on the half-sunken rooftop. It seems there won’t be a coalition to defeat the Nine; instead there are three, of which only two have actually indicated a willingness to work together. At least the heroes aren’t likely to drag us into gang politics. Working in Hookwolf’s coalition with Skidmark and Coil, and all the baggage that implies, would have been an… _unpleasant_ reminder of a whole host of shit I’d rather forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that this chapter is long. In fact, it's the longest chapter I've ever uploaded. Most of that is because I borrowed a lot of the dialogue from Plague 12.2, and I felt like it would be a little dishonest to have two chapters that essentially re-tread the same ground Worm did (with one significant divergence). It's also because I feel like I have too much Slaughterhouse content planned for one arc, but not enough for two. Therefore, this arc will have noticeably longer chapters than normal, but not as absurdly long as the one you've just read.


	74. Asylum - 11.03

“Now that the Truce has been settled, it’s time to _strategize._ ” I can’t see Hookwolf’s face underneath his mask, but I know he’ll be grinning from ear to ear, like the cat that got the cream. He’s done very well for himself, playing off people’s fears, both real and imagined, to position himself at the head of the coalition. If the Protectorate hadn’t picked up our contract, then he’d outnumber just about every force in the Bay, even if the Undersiders and Travellers were to align themselves with the Protectorate. As it stands, he’s still at the head of the largest force of Capes in the city.

Of course, that’s not the whole story. His force my be large, but it relies on Skidmark, Coil, Purity and himself managing to work together without betraying each other, and that’s a hell of a lot of egos to manage. By contrast, the Undersiders and Travellers, even if they don’t have a clear leader, have been working together for at least a month, and we’ll be slotting ourselves seamlessly into the Protectorate’s chain of command. Hookwolf doesn’t care about that, though. All he sees is Capes and numbers.

“We’ve already informed you that Armsmaster is Mannequin’s candidate,” Miss Militia begins, standing directly opposite Hookwolf on the lower end of the roof, her American flag bandanna and ambiguously ethnic skin tone contrasting nicely with Hookwolf’s neo-Nazi aesthetic. “If any progress is to be made here, we need to know who else has been nominated.” She looks pointedly between the Chosen and us, as the only two groups with obvious damage from the Nine.

“None of my subordinates were nominated,” Faultline states, as Skidmark shouts “bullshit” from the other side of the roof. “Burnscar and Labyrinth were simply inmates together in Asylum East.

“You’ll have to elaborate, Faultline,” Purity speaks. “That sounds like motive enough to nominate her.”

Faultline nods, conceding the point, before continuing. “The staff used Labyrinth as an incitement to encourage Burnscar to cooperate, a reward for good behaviour. She came to the Palanquin out of a sense of guilt, before leaving once she realised the negative effect she has on Labyrinth’s mental state.”

The poor girl herself fidgets beside me, and I envelop her shoulder with a comforting hand, as the ground beneath out feet shifts a little into the tiled floor of a hospital, stained yellow with age. I rub her shoulder gently, and the tiles start to recede a little. She was having a good day, but it seems like Burnscar has caused a relapse. It’s a cruel, heartless thing to think but at least this way she’s better prepared to fight the Nine, and hopefully she won’t remember much of this.

Over with the Protectorate, Weld looks at me uncertainly. It makes sense that he’d be concerned about this; a lot of Case-53s like him end up in Asylum East, and he was in the process of sending me there himself when the Crew broke me out.

“Hookwolf,” Miss Militia continues. “It’s clear that your group was attacked. We need to know which of the Chosen is a candidate.”

“I am.”

Ripples of tension spread through every Cape on the half-sunken rooftop, every Cape save for the Chosen themselves.

“Shatterbird insulted me, hurt my people. She sought to subvert my mission and turn it to her own ends. Do you know who Fenrir was?”

“I’m aware of the myth,” Miss Militia interrupts. “We have briefings on gang symbology.”

“The chained wolf, destined to free himself at the world’s end to consume the sun, to consume Odin himself.” It doesn’t matter that the heroine already knows what he means, Hookwolf is a creature of ego, and there’s nothing men like him love more than the sound of their own voice. No wonder he styles himself after a wolf that eats gods.

“Fenrir was a warrior that couldn’t be contained, just as my Chosen are warriors. Together, we will break our chains and stand above the gods. All Shatterbird offered were more chains, and I will not be bound to her.”

His words are pompous, arrogant, better suited for a fucking blockbuster than a crisis meeting, but they seem to assure everyone that Hookwolf hasn’t started buying into this serial killer nonsense. His madness is something completely different. It’s not even much of a complex metaphor; he’s Fenrir, obviously, and the old Empire, Kaiser’s Empire, was the chains holding him down. Now that he’s free of Kaiser’s control – and doesn’t Kaiser make a wonderful stand-in for Odin? – all he needs to do is devour the sun, and he’ll be golden.

It’s the same philosophy that drove Cricket to throw herself onto my claws, the same instinct that used to drive me. We’re so fucking small, on this world or any other, so all that matters is making a big enough noise, causing enough destruction, so that your name lives forever. It’s the only immortality we can hope to find.

I wonder if people remember me, back home? I wonder just how much of the story got out there? They all talked about Khanivore, of course. The unbeaten Beastie and her pilot, the only female Baiter in the sport. I wonder if they remember the woman who gave her all for their entertainment, who put her life on the line every time she stepped into the ring? Maybe I’m an urban legend; the bitek monster that killed the man who tried to trick her, before disappearing into the night. Maybe they’ve forgotten about me and moved onto the next big thing.

“I appreciate your honesty, Hookwolf,” Miss Militia admits in a guarded tone, “so I’ll be honest in turn. Bonesaw attacked New Wave in their home, and named Panacea as her candidate.”

If Armsmaster’s nomination caused a murmur of shock, Panacea’s nomination has almost managed to petrify people. I’ve heard of her, of course. I may not be interested at all in the cape scene, but I like to keep my ear to the ground about people who mess with organs and the like. Panacea; the miracle healer. Part of New Wave, the tight-knit family of moralistic Capes who pride themselves on honesty and accountability. They don’t even wear masks, for fuck sake, and one of them has drawn the attention of Bonesaw?

Bonesaw is another name I’m familiar with. She’s who I found when I got a little homesick and started looking into people on this Earth who know something about bioscience. That was a fucking mistake. What I found was one freak after another, deranged lunatics making little monsters on every continent, with Bonesaw listed right amongst the warlords who’d unleashed self-replicating swarms, and been put down by the Triumvirate for their troubles.

Bonesaw hasn’t made anything self-replicating, but everybody agrees that she could if she wanted to. She’s kept in check by the rest of the Nine, out of what’s suspected to be a sense of fair play. Every now and then, horror stories and urban legends would make their way through the tower stacks of London: rogue servitors gone feral, or mutated into monsters; mad doctors hiding among hospitals or in flesh-sculpting clinics, using people’s vanity to get them onto the table for cosmetic surgery then twisting them into weeping and broken creatures; makeshift laboratories at the heart of the worst estates, where amateur skinstitchers offer grotesque but cheap combat mods to thugs with more cents than sense so that they can get that little extra edge in a fight even as they throw away any chance of ever living in the real world.

Bonesaw is all those horror stories made real, and reading about her work sent me down a rabbit hole I’d much rather not have seen. Her creations are misshapen, artless things, held together by stitches or metal staples, but I recognise enough to know that’s just a façade she puts on them while her power works beneath the surface. She takes capes, either by capturing them or retrieving their corpse, and twists their powers somehow; merging them together into symbiotic monsters or even bringing the dead back to life, slaved to her control. She’s everything the worst of the church thought bitek was, packaged up in a girl who doesn’t look a day over ten years old.

“I assume the Protectorate have secured Panacea?” Coil asks, the first to recover from his shock. Given his reputation, it’s entirely possible that he already knew.

“Unfortunately not,” the heroine admits in an even tone, though I know the admission must be eating at her. “She fled her home shortly after Bonesaw’s attack. So far, we have been unable to find her and bring her in.”

There’s a hesitance there, a little white lie I’d not have noticed if I hadn’t been standing so close to her. They’ve contacted her, but she didn’t want to come in? Why?

“If you find her, I strongly recommend that you contact us immediately. If any of you try to bring her in, or try to recruit or conscript her, then you’ll only drive her deeper into hiding. And if you isolate her like _that_ , then you might as well hand her over to the Nine yourself.”

Miss Militia’s words are stern, leaning on every scrap of authority she has, but I don’t know if the gangs will listen. We will, of course, but we work for Miss Militia right now. If that wasn’t the case, then I don’t know if the boss would be able to pass up on a chance at recruiting such a powerful healer. It’s a Cape thing; there are very few Capes capable of healing, and none I can think of who are as good at it as New Wave’s wayward daughter. She’s the goose that layed the golden egg and that’ll have everyone’s eyes on her.

“Very well,” Coil offers an agreeable front, while the other gang leaders remain tellingly quiet. “That’s four members of the Nine accounted for, and three candidates, but what about the others?”

“Jack Slash visited my apartment…”

Purity starts to glow a little more intensely, an intimidating beacon out amongst this dark night. But I can see past the glow, can recognise it for what it is. It’s a coping mechanism; something she can use to hide herself away from the world so she doesn’t have to show the tears creeping down her face, doesn’t have to force her lips into a smile. A lot of people I’ve known have a face they bring out when it all gets too much, a neutral smile they can hide behind so that they don’t displease the person who makes them so sad by doing something as stupid as actually _looking_ sad.

But Capes have their masks, Purity has her glow and I had my other body. It’s easy to get a reputation for being a stone-cold bitch when you’re piloting a barely-held-together nervous system, when you can shunt all your emotional tells to your real body, the one idling in the tank on the other side of the room.

“He wanted to nominate Oni Lee as his candidate, but Oni Lee is apparently brain-dead. Jack killed him, or got near enough, and came to nominate me. Instead, he nominated Theo.”

The name isn’t familiar, but it sends mutterings through the ranks of the Chosen, mostly through the ones who weren’t part of Hookwolf’s clique before the schism.

“Theo _Anders,_ ” Faultline states, and it all becomes clear.

I’ve heard the name Anders before. Max Anders was the owner of Medhall Pharmaceuticals, one of the Bay’s largest businesses. He was also Kaiser, and his civilian identity was revealed along with the rest of the Empire Eighty Eight while we were travelling south. Purity’s identity got revealed with the rest of them, but I didn’t pay any attention to it. It seems like she was Kaiser’s girl, just like I thought.

“But Theo doesn’t have powers…” Victor speaks, from the ranks of the Chosen. Sometimes I forget that all these people probably knew each other before the schism; if they weren’t friends, they were certainly colleagues. Victor sounds concerned, almost distraught. I guess this is what happens when you get powers at the lowest moment of your life; you wouldn’t wish them on your worst enemy, let alone the son of the man you used to work for.

“No. He doesn’t.” Purity looks more defeated than a glowing silhouette ever should. It’s a little hard to reconcile the broken woman in front of me with the person I watched preside over the execution of a reporter on live television, the woman who levelled city blocks in mindless bloodlust.

“He was able to talk Jack down from killing him and Aster to… to see how I’d react. Instead, he gave Theo two years to prepare. When Theo is seventeen, he’ll come to kill him and a thousand other people, unless Theo is able to kill him.”

“Not an immediate threat, then,” Coil speaks, almost dismissively, before continuing as the glowing silhouette stares angrily at him, “not a threat _at all_ provided we succeed in killing Jack Slash before he leaves the city.”

That seems to settle her, if only a little.

“So that’s five of the members who have either chosen candidates or decided not to. What of the remainder? The Siberian? Crawler? Hatchet Face?”

Faultline is looking pointedly at the Merchants, for much the same reason I am. If anyone’s likely to draw the attention of these psychopaths, it’s the Merchants. Truth be told, though, I don’t think any of them have enough of an edge to draw the attention of a group like the Nine. We took out all of the powered Merchants without breaking a sweat, but Burnscar was able to defeat us singlehandedly. We’re only alive right now because of her misplaced fondness for Elle.

“Crawler has been known to avoid nominating candidates in the past,” Miss Militia muses. At present, Watchdog analysts can’t think of anyone in the Bay who’d be likely to draw his attention. As for the remainder of the Nine, we’re not too sure. It’s likely they’ve nominated some of the Travellers, or perhaps the Undersiders, but we’ll never know now.”

Her jab at Hookwolf isn’t answered. If I could see behind the metal wolf’s mask, I bet that bastard would be smiling.

“It’s time to discuss strategy…”

Very little comes of the discussion, not that I was expecting much. Perhaps if Hookwolf’s group had acquired out services he’d be a little freer with his information but, as it stands, our employers now have near-parity with his faction. All that they manage to hash out is a general agreement to let the other faction know if they plan to attack, and for the PRT and BBPD to turn a blind eye to the elite human soldiers of the Chosen and Coil’s Organisation, provided they’re subtle about it. The last thing the Protectorate wants is a picture of Chosen Men on the evening news.

It’s easy enough to think about Fenrir’s Chosen as a rabble of skinheads, but Hookwolf has a lot of guys who’re just as good as Coil’s professional soldiers, and almost as well equipped. I saw a few of them in his fighting pits, decked out in body armour and carrying assault rifles; they’re certainly better equipped than the cops. It’s just another sign of how fucked this city is.

I don’t talk as everyone starts to file into their boats and make their way to shore. The villain’s coalition splits up almost immediately as they all head back to their respective territories, but Faultline turns our boats to follow the Protectorate. We’re on the clock now.

It’s just me, Faultline and Labyrinth in the boat, but even so I wait until we’re a little away from the rest of the Crew before I speak to her. Something’s been nagging at the back of my mind, and I could do with some answers.

“What was that back there, boss? What you said to the Undersiders about not putting ‘money, power and control over our collective survival?’ Then you stick your head in the sand until you’re sure we’re getting paid for this.”

I turn to look at her, sitting leisurely at the back of the boat as she steers us to shore. With her mask on, and in the darkness, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.

“It seemed like the most likely way to bring them on side. You only need to look at Skitter’s ‘territory’ to see that there are at least some people among their ranks who are a little too soft for gang squabbles.”

“I don’t believe you. There was real passion in those words, and don’t you deny it.”

“Oh don’t tell me you, of _all_ people, have suddenly become a bleeding heart.”

“No, but I think _you_ have.”

Silence, save for the sound of the engine and the crashing of our boat as it crests the waves of the crater lake. Silence, until Faultline seems to shrink a little, just for a moment, before composing herself again.

“We can’t stay here. Brockton Bay was our safe haven, somewhere we could come to lick our wounds and relax after a job well done. It was also our safety net; in addition to the Palanquin, I own twelve other businesses in the city that I used to launder some of the funds from our jobs, a little security from total reliance on the Number Man’s services. Those businesses are shut, or destroyed, and the Palanquin is quickly turning into as much as a warzone as the rest of the city. When this is done, I’ll be pulling us out of Brockton Bay. We’ll find another, smaller city to establish ourselves in.”

“So why not just leave now?” I ask, shuffling around a little on the boat while being careful not to let my sharp bits catch on it. “We could have slipped out of the city this morning, and left this mess behind us.”

Faultline goes quiet again, before letting out a long sigh.

“We could have, yes. That’s part of the reason I held out for payment; there’s no reason you shouldn’t be compensated for this. As for why I stayed…”

She seems to be building herself up to something. She’s always so… unflappable around us. She’s built herself up around this idea of being the ultimate professional, and I know it must hurt a little to let part of the façade drop, even for a moment, even when only me and Elle can hear it, and only I’ll understand it.

“Thirteen businesses, spread across the city. Our work never let me be a hands-on owner to them, but I was heavily involved all the same. I got to know their people: all their worries and dreams, their skills and aspirations. I’ve been looking after them as best I can since Leviathan, helping those who can leave, leave, and helping those who can’t find a safe shelter, taking them in at the Palanquin itself. But I can’t help them once we’ve gone.”

“So this is a last gift for them,” I muse, as the boss falls silent again. “Help make the city that little bit safer for your people, so that you can leave them with a clear conscience.”

“Exactly. I hope…”

“You hope what? Hope I don’t think less of you for it? Boss, I don’t _care_ that you’ve got hidden depths. If anything, this just confirms what I already knew; that you look after your people. You’re a Cape, and if you’re willing to go this far for the unpowered people working for you, then I know for a fact you’d go further for us.”

“Thank you.”

She falls silent again, as the shore draws closer and closer. Ahead of us the Protectorate moves in two boats, faint light glinting off Weld’s metallic body and the golden armour of the lion-themed cape.

“One thing I don’t understand is why the Protectorate hired us. I was sure we’d end up working for Coil again.”

“Ah,” time for _my_ confession. “I think that might have been my fault, boss. I’ve been chatting to Weld a lot online, never about anything work related, and he probably put our name forward at some briefing.”

Faultline is silent as I look at her sheepishly, feeling like I’m eight years old again and my parents have just spotted me stealing from the pick n’ mix.

“And you say _I’m_ the one with hidden depths,” Faultline chuckles quietly to herself, before putting her impassive mask of professionalism back on as we reach the shore, or the half-sunken stretch of road that’s standing in for a proper shore. We pull our boats out of the water by hand, dumping them next to where the Protectorate have dumped theirs, before starting to make out way through the broken streets of downtown, heading towards the relative safety of the PRT building.

Faultline moves up to walk besides Miss Militia, deep in conversation as she goes over the details of the team the Protectorate has just hired, but the rest of us don’t really mingle. Both us and the heroes seem too unnerved, or too aloof, for that, so I decide that if somebody has to break the ice, it might as well be me. I move over, passing in front of the woman in blue, and start pacing along the road on all fours right next to Weld.

“I assume we have you to thank for this job?”

“I raised the possibility of hiring you at a briefing, yeah. Director Piggot and Miss Militia agreed, so here we are.”

I smirk at him, a little teasingly. “Glad to see I left a good impression.”

“It’s not that,” he replies, as I put on a totally genuine expression of sadness, “okay, it’s not _just_ that. I read up a little on recent events, the ABB bombings.”

“Ah yeah. Rotten business all ‘round.”

“Your coalition had close to fifty capes, outnumbering the Protectorate by almost two to one. I didn’t want to see the same happen here, and I know that your group are professionals who won’t stab your employer in the back.”

“That’s us,” I grin, bringing a claw up to slap him on the back. It’s like slapping a girder, which shouldn’t really be surprising. “Pure professionals, we are. Accept no substitutes.”

“So, Weld,” the white-suited Cape pipes up from beside us, “you going to introduce me to your girlfriend?”

His cocky attitude might be fake, a front like his mask, but it’s what everyone needs right now so I’ll play along.

“Watch your lip, kid, I don’t go after jailbait. Besides, Weld is already married, to _justice._ ”

The white-clad cape laughs with me, moving forwards to shake my hand and introduce himself, only to falter as a sound starts to resonate throughout the streets, a keening wail that grows in intensity, like a finger being run along the edge of a wineglass.

“Take cover!”

I don’t know who shouted it, but the words have barely left their mouth before everything explodes. We’re walking down a canyon between two buildings that had been hit hard by Leviathan. They’re listing in their foundations, with their gleaming glass fronts looking more like the last few teeth in the mouth of a junkie. But there’s still enough glass to send a glittering, almost mesmerising pattern of moonlight across the street, as countless shards burst out the windows in an agonising wail.

The glass falls with a sound like a thousand windchimes swaying in the breeze, and I move without thinking. I leap forwards, pushing Faultline and Miss Militia to the ground and shielding them as best I can with my fireproof cloak and my own body. There’s an agonising instant where nothing happens, as the glass falls downwards, before the haunting chimes are replaced by the cascading sound of glass smashing into concrete, and I feel shards slicing effortlessly through my cloak, embedding themselves into the flesh of my back.

Beneath me, Miss Militia and Faultline are lying completely still, like the glass is a living thing and the slightest movement could draw it to them. Miss Militia’s bandanna has been jostled partially off her face but there’s a tighter-fitting mask underneath it, probably for just this sort of situation. Not like I’d have cared about her secret identity; an hour ago, I didn’t even know who she was.

A few drops of blood fall from my face onto the heroine’s, and I hesitantly move my hand up to the voicebox on the right side of my throat. It’s broken; the silicone circuit board within having followed the path of least resistance through the plastic inner casing, rather than the metal speaker. It’s embedded itself into my neck, so I rip it out and toss it aside, sending a fresh spurt of blood onto Miss Militia’s olive coloured skin before the flow is cut off and the wound starts to clot.

I’ve lost my voice.

The downpour doesn’t last long, barely more than a couple of second as the last of the glass falls from the highest floors but I wait there for a little longer, unwilling to believe that it’s over. It’s only when I hear movement behind me that I dare to move, wincing uncomfortably at the few shards that have managed to pierce my new flesh; the few parts of my back that weren’t protected by bone, crisped flesh or the last few scraps of my grey skin.

I feel the shards leave me and the cuts beginning to clot, one by one, as Faultline moves up and down my body, tossing the bloody shards over to the side of the street. I can’t do anything more than grunt appreciatively and that feels so fucking limiting after months of speaking normally. Around me, the moonlight is reflected in a glittering sea of glass shards, the street itself turned into a deadly, if beautiful, mirror. Behind me, Weld is helping Newter to his feet, while the white-clad cape stands in the middle of everyone else, each one of them frozen in an expression of shock.

I growl a question at him and he backpedals a little, his arms raised.

“Easy, tiger. They’re just frozen. They’ll come out of it in ten minutes, max.”

Oh. Like Hold-em, but not limited to one person. I suppose that’s okay, so long as they’re safe. I thank him as best I can, which isn’t very well at all, given the circumstances.

“Are you doing alright, Khanivore?” Weld asks as Spitfire unfreezes, immediately looking around in shock before calming down. I simply point to the broken voice box, abandoned on the ground.

“I see. I’ll ask if any of our Tinkers can spare some time to make you a replacement.”

I just shrug my shoulders, thankful that this body doesn’t have tear ducts. They won’t be able to help; Cranial’s tech seemed pretty specialised, and I doubt any of the Protectorate’s Tinkers will be able to recreate her tap into my Affinity link. Besides, they’ll be busy fixing up their own stuff. It hurts, like losing a limb, but I’ll just have to deal with it for now. This isn’t the time to be falling to pieces.

Labyrinth and the blue-clad woman unfreeze within seconds of each other, and Faultline immediately rushes to Elle’s side to calm her down. I should be there with her, but I’m too numb to think straight. So this is how the Slaughterhouse Nine announce their presence to the city. Up ahead, I can see what must be the seashore. There are all sorts of buildings in-between here and there, but that doesn’t matter. Not when there’s a wall of sand stretching up to the cloud layer, writhing like a desert storm before Shatterbird releases her control on it, and the whole edifice comes crashing down to Earth.

It’s a message, one I understand loud and clear. The Nine could kill us all at any moment, but they’re choosing not to.

One by one, the others come unstuck. The moment the last Cape, the Protectorate hero with the lion’s helmet, comes free we immediately set off. The woman in grey and blue is first, disappearing ahead in rapid bursts of speed and sending glass shards scattering in her wake. She’s going on ahead to link up with the rest of the Protectorate, and the wake of her movement provides a clear line through the field of glass that everyone can use.

Well, everyone except me. I’m too wide, but I also have my armour, my talons and claws, so I can walk through the glass without worrying about being cut.

It’s agonisingly slow going and we move in complete silence but, after what feels like half an hour but was probably no more than fifteen minutes, we arrive in front of the PRT building. It was probably nice to look at, once, with gleaming glass walls rising up into the sky, but that’s gone now. Instead we’re looking up at a skeleton of a building. There are places where the glass front concealed thick concrete walls, hiding some vital rooms, but most of it was simply office space, and those floors are now exposed and barren, with medics moving amongst the darkness to save what wounded they can.

We pass through a perimeter of armed guards, their faces hidden behind opaque black visors of some sort of see-through plastic. Almost all of them are geared up for a lethal fight, and only a few of them have the friendlier containment foam sprayers. I suspect the sprayers are only there because not all capes can be killed by a bullet. The millicents eye us warily, but they let us through without incident. We work for their boss now, same as them.

The lobby of the building might have been nice too, but there’s no way to tell now. It seems strange to see men building a machine gun nest in the middle of what was a gift shop, or the metal barricades that are being erected on top of the welcoming reception. The centre of the room is dominated by Capes, all taking marching orders from a man in a plain blue suit. If this isn’t Director Piggot, then he’s at least someone high up in the organisation. There’s a plate carrier by his feet, but it looks like he hasn’t had time to put it on.

The Capes themselves are an odd mix of different costumes and ages. There’s Vista, the pint-sized space warper I’ve met a couple of times now, standing next to a blonde in her late teens, dressed in a white one-piece dress that ends mid-thigh, with a white cape slung across one shoulder. I can’t tell, because she’s looking away from me, but I don’t think she’s wearing a mask. As well as those two, there’s the grey and blue woman from the meeting, a man in an almost indecently tight red costume and another man in red body armour, all listening intently to the suit.

“-first priority is to make contact with the hospitals and police precincts, to get an idea of the situation where they are. Until we can get some vehicles clear, you’ll be acting as runners. Under no circumstances are you to engage in combat or get distracted by anything at all. We’re working in the dark here, people, and the more up to date information we have, the more lives we can save.”

He carries on, directing the Capes to move to various police stations and hospitals throughout the city. I guess all the radios have been knocked out along with everything else that had a silicone chip. Beside me, I hear Faultline speaking to Newter.

“Go join that group; you’re faster than a lot of them.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Newter strides over and smoothly inserts himself into the briefing. None of the heroes object to his presence, though I don’t know if that’s because he’s genuinely welcome or they’re just too stressed to give a shit.

Miss Militia nods in gratitude to Faultline before she brings us deeper into the building, past wounded PRT agents in suits or unarmoured uniforms, lying along one side of the corridor with bandages stretched over bloody gashes, or layered around embedded shards of glass. Haggard-looking PRT medics move themselves out of our way, almost pressing themselves against the wall of the corridor to let me past, before immediately going back to check on one patient or another. It’s callous, but I can understand the reasoning behind giving priority to your combat teams.

We’re led into a conference room filled by PRT personnel in uniforms and suits, with a woman sitting at the head of the table, a shattered TV on the wall behind her. She’s obese, with a blonde bob of hair, but there’s steel in her grey eyes, and she looks down the length of the table at Faultline with barely-concealed disdain on her face. She might appreciate our numbers, but she sure doesn’t appreciate us. Maybe I’m being unkind; maybe she just hates that she needs to hire a team of villainous mercenaries to get anywhere close to numerical parity with the villains.

“Faultline. This is a bad time,” she gestures to a folder on our side of the table. “That’s your contract. It’s fair, your usual rates plus fifty percent. Sign it, and I can focus on managing this mess.”

Faultline opens the folder, skimming down the two pages of the contract. Director Piggot, assuming that’s who this is, isn’t messing around. There’s no legalese or doublespeak, just a document simple enough that I can almost follow along with it. Of course, the boss is a lot better at this than I am, and she jots down an extra two lines with her pen before sliding the document along the length of the table. The Director snorts before adding her own signature and handing the contract off to an aide, who brings it immediately back to Faultline.

And with that, the deal is done. Faultline follows Miss Militia out of the room, and we follow her. Within minutes, we’ve been split up and assigned to different patrol routes, mixed in with regulars from the Protectorate and the Wards. We can’t go far, not without any working radios, but that doesn’t matter.

We’ve been doing our own thing for too long now, and it’s nice to slip back into that wonderfully guilt-free feeling that comes with mercenary work. We’ve got a job to do. It might be a terrifying job, going up against monsters that could kill the whole city if they wanted to, but that doesn’t matter. We’re being paid, so we’ll do the job. So long as I focus on that simple truth, it almost feels possible.


	75. Asylum: 11.04

You never realise just how much you’ll miss something until it’s gone. Sure I’ve lost my voice before, but back then it was just one worry parked on top of a whole heap of other shit I had to come to terms with. Getting my voice back felt incredible, but I didn’t feel its loss as badly as I do now. The silences seem longer, and I feel further apart from the people around me than ever before.

It doesn’t help that I don’t know who any of them are, that they don’t know me. We’ve been split up, distributed around the Protectorate teams and PRT positions. Part of it is because they’re still not sure if they can trust us; they’re used to fighting alongside Villains during the Endbringer truce, and they’re familiar with the kind of standoffish truce that currently exists between them, Hookwolf’s coalition and – however unofficially – the Undersiders/Travellers alliance, but we’re something a little new. Hiring us means bringing us in on their patrol schedules, letting Faultline into the briefing room and, fortunately for us, actually _listening_ to what she has to say.

We’re professionals; we’re never going to go behind their back while they’re paying our rates, but they have no way of being _sure_ of that. So they split us up, moving us around wherever we’re needed, wherever we’d best fit into their organisation. In Faultline’s case, that means working as close to the top as they’re willing to let her, shadowing Miss Militia and bringing her formidable tactical knowledge to bear. Labyrinth, on the other hand, is being held in reserve, with Spitfire acting as her minder. She’s one of the heavy-hitters – they both are, in their own way – kept in comfort in the PRT building, so that they can be able to move out if shit _really_ hits the fan.

It’s a good idea, and we _need_ the force Labyrinth can bring to bear, but at the moment it’s little more than an optimistic hope. I’m not the only thing here that’s been crippled; our clients have likewise lost their voice.

When Shatterbird made herself known, she destroyed everything in the city with even the smallest smidgeon of silicon: every window and every grain of sand on the beach, but also every computer, every radio, all that wonderful technology that the world takes for granted, gone in an instant. The PRT, like every Millicent agency every conceived, loves their tech. They love their big screens showing maps of the city, they love their car radios and their near-instantaneous communication. They love their paperwork, and all the machines needed to churn it out. Without it, they’re just as mute as I am.

It means sending out patrols not knowing what’s going to happen to them. It means that I spent this morning hauling a spool of telephone wire up the side of the tallest building in the city, so that they could set up at least one observer post with a direct line to HQ. It means trusting your teams to be able to fire off their emergency flares, trusting the spotters to notice both the flare and where in the city it was fired from, then trusting your drivers to make it over there without the GPS system they were using to keep track of which roads in this cursed city are in a usable state. It means trusting that the teams will be able to survive long enough for help to get there, and knowing that there’s no way to tell if they’ve managed to hold out for long enough.

All of that while also managing the hundreds, if not thousands, of people who got injured in Shatterbird’s attack. Out in the city, they’ve already run out of body bags. The dead are being piled in heaps by the side of the road, covered by a simple white sheet. They won’t be moved until it’s safe for them to be moved.

Right now me and Shamrock are helping to man the perimeter around the PRT building itself, a series of checkpoints covering the block around the building, within screaming distance of the main building itself. Like most of the Capes out here, we’re tough in a fight but not manoeuvrable enough to count. Sure, Faultline reckons the PRT would consider me a Mover 2, but that’s underwhelming as ratings go, and is mostly because I’m surprisingly adept at vertical movement.

Mostly it means staring over a barricade next to a bunch of nervous PRT grunts who got flown in from Canada the other day. They’re a little trigger happy, and more than a little nervous about working alongside a known villain, but so far they’ve kept to themselves, and that’s fine by me. Still, Weld has been by a few times to see how things are going, since he’s the very definition of a slow but tough fighter, and he’s nice enough. He’s even been managing to work around my very limited vocabulary, and I think he’s slowly becoming fluent at interpreting my various growls and gestures.

There’s a commotion at the barricade, and I turn my eyes to look down the empty street, past the work crews who are oh-so-slowly heaping it up into piles by the side of the road and past Gregor who’s meticulously covering the heaps in a quick-setting resin, so that Shatterbird can’t use them against us if she attacks. The Flying Squad are coming back in, with all the people they left with.

They’re not the fastest capes in the city – that honour apparently goes to some guy named Velocity, but he hits about as hard as a four year old – but they are that wonderful combination of speed and toughness. Newter is there, bounding between the walls and the road like an orange pinball, and I offer him a cheery wave as he passes overhead. Behind him, running along the fourth floor of a shattered office block, is a girl in purple, who uses a massive crossbow to shoot long lengths of chain between buildings like she’s Batgirl or something.

Hovering right down the centre of the street, easily keeping pace with the others, is that same girl in the white dress I saw when I first got here. Glory Girl, if I’ve been listening right. She seems like a classic superhero, with flight and a mean right hook, but she also has this downright annoying effect that induces awe in a radius around her. I really fucking hate the way it screws with my head, with my _edge_ , but I can also see how it gets the unpowered guys to straighten up, gets that morbid expression off their faces. So I guess I can tolerate it, for now.

The flying squad isn’t all teenage mercenaries and Wards; the woman in the grey and blue jumpsuit is there as well, along with a man in red, but I don’t pay them much mind. If I ever end up working with them, then I’ll try to remember names and powers, but I’ve got more on my mind right now, and I honestly can’t be fucked to go and try to mime my questions to some PRT officer who probably has better things to do anyway.

I hear the sound of a helicopter echoing down the canyons of what was once downtown and look up to see an aircraft descending towards the rooftop of the PRT building. Like most aircraft I’ve seen, it looks like it should barely be able to fly, let alone actually land on a pad that small, but that’s just the tech gap talking. Still, you’d never catch me in one of those death-traps!

Three Capes get out of the helicopter, dressed in the usual eclectic mix of costumes that are no doubt the brainchild of a marketing designer with a weird fetish for women in spandex. They shake the hand of whatever PRT suit is up there to meet them, before looking off into the distance expectantly. There are a few moments of awkward silence, as the three reinforcements get a good look at the wonders of Brockton Bay, until another cape flies in at impossible speeds and surrounded in a burst of light, before slowly descending to the rooftop, taking the chance to get his own eyeful of the city.

As deliberately ignorant of Cape culture as I am, there are some names I just can’t ignore. Legend, one of the three most powerful people in the world. You can’t avoid pictures of him and the rest of the Triumvirate: Eidolon and Alexandria. They’re everywhere: on posters, clothing, graffiti, toys and it’s a rare day that goes by without at least one of them appearing on the news. Now one of them is here. I don’t think you could ask for a clearer sign of just how fucking terrifying the Nine are.

Granted, I don’t actually know what Legend _does_. Something to do with lasers, I think?

He’s just the most obvious of a whole host of personnel that have been streaming into the city over the past few days. The surrounding PRT departments have been all too eager to ship a few grunts off to the city, but they’re not offering the help we really need. Without proper communications, all of these people are as good as worthless.

Someone clears their throat in front of me, and I look away from the leader of the Protectorate. The boss is here, with Newter following close behind her. She’s come over from a little gaggle of PRT troopers, locals standing around a couple of their vans, more massive than the ones I’m used to seeing, with immense wheels and angular barred windows.

“Khanivore,” Faultline greets me, “how are you holding up?”

I respond as best I can, giving her a couple of hand gestures and a growl that roughly come out as ‘good as can be expected.’ It’s easier talking to members of the Crew like this; they’ve been with me long enough to recognise my quirks, and they remember how I used to ‘talk’ before getting the voicebox.

“Good. I’m working on dealing with your… speech impediment, but it’ll take some time. In the meantime, I’m sending you and Newter back to the Palanquin. I’m not comfortable with the amount of stuff we left there, so I’ve managed to persuade the director to lend me a few officers to move your tank.”

I cock my head, wordlessly asking just how she managed to pull that off?

“They’re also collecting the two remaining HEMTTs. The PRT needs heavy transports to move in fresh communications equipment, so I’ve decided to let them borrow ours, provided they bring your tank here while they’re at it.”

It’s a smart move, with the trucks gathering dust while the Palanquin is empty.

“I also want you to retrieve our valuables from the safe in my office. The rifles, grenades and all the paperwork I kept in there.”

I nod in understanding. Left unspoken was that the boss wants us to get Cauldron’s case out of there as well; it doesn’t do to just leave five superpowers lying around where anyone with a block of thermite or a very tough drill could get to them. Most likely the rifles, grenades and even the paperwork are all just a cover to keep the case in our hands.

“I’m sure I can trust you to be discrete, and to keep an eye on the PRT. There’s nothing sensitive outside my office, so just keep them out of there and you should be fine. Newter can fetch help if you run into any trouble.”

A simple nod is all I can manage, as Faultline heads back towards the PRT building, and Newter leads me to the eight PRT guys standing around the two vans. It seems like too few, until I realise that one of the vans is just for me. The guy leading the squad introduces himself to Newter and me, and seems to take my silence in his stride as Newter handles our side of the introductions. Within moments, we’re all sealed away in our vans and driving through the streets of the city, with Newter leaping from rooftop to rooftop above our heads.

<|°_°|>

  
It’s always sad, seeing the Palanquin like this, and it seems so much sadder now that it’s empty. Its façade is scorched, even if Burnscar’s flames never actually touched the building itself, and there’s still the hole in the wall where I jumped through the old window. I had thought fixing it would be as simple as re-plastering the hole, but we never got the chance. The inside is a little better, even if it seems so much less than it was when it was occupied.

The dance floor is still there, but there’re no lights to reflect off its glossy surface. The bottles behind the bar were all destroyed by Shatterbird, leaving a mess of broken glass amongst stains from dozens of spirits. I lead the troopers up into the VIP room, past the sofas and chairs that used to be filled with people, a modern day opium den. Past my own pile of pillows and cushions, where I used to wile away the evening shooting the breeze with whoever had the courage to approach me. Newter comes in through the window we used to use to look down on the dance floor, and he stops with me, just for a moment.

We really did have something good here, for as long as it lasted.

Up the half-stairs and into the highest level of the Palanquin, our own little kingdom. Our home. One of the PRT grunts brushes against the door to the girls’ room, but a spiked tendril drives him back. This isn’t their space, it’s _ours_. They’re just guests here. We come to my room, mine and Shamrock’s, and I rip the wall out by the doorway, carefully placing it a little further down the corridor before returning to peek into the space that’s been my home for months now.

I wish I’d done more with it. Compared to Emily’s space – or Newter’s or even Gregor’s – Shamrock and I shared a Spartan cell, without life or character. Surely I could have bought a couple of posters or something? Maybe installed a sound system or a TV? Instead there’s just Shamrock’s bed, her lockers and my tank looming in the background, taking up almost two thirds of the available space.

I catch sight of myself in the murky reflective surface of the replacement door, but I can’t quite read the expression on my face. Instead, I turn away from it, and point the grunts to the tank, showing them where the lever for the hydraulic wheels is before leaving them in my room and heading for the office with Newter.

Fuck, even Faultline’s _office_ has more character than my room. Sure, there’re no posters or photos on the walls, not even an inspirational cat or four, but every inch of it is a reflection of who the boss is. It’s wall to wall notice boards, meticulous plans and maps, speaking of a woman who wants to hold the world down and dissect it while it’s still wriggling, so she can better understand how she fits in it. It’s practical, professional, maybe a little ruthless and completely and utterly _hers._

Newter’s already put in the combination to the floor-to-ceiling safe that was probably an inset cupboard before Faultline bought the place. He heaves it open, the mechanism well-oiled and soundless, while I pull a long black duffel bag down from a high shelf, brushing aside a few scraps of paper as I set it down on Faultline’s desk.

Newter steps aside, while I start to load up the bag; wouldn’t do to have him contaminate them with his sweat, after all. The first thing to go in is the unassuming silver case, the omega engraved into the lid. I bury that treasure beneath brown folders of information from Faultline’s network, financial documents for her businesses that have been outdated since Leviathan hit, about a dozen grenades and three long-barrelled rifles with magazines and bullets aplenty. All worth nothing compared to the treasure-trove they’re concealing.

I’m about to pick up the bag when Newter slings it over his shoulder.

“Faultline probably wants this back as quickly as possible. You know how she gets.”

I nod, looking around the office. It'll also mean that the PRT can't get their hands on it without dosing itself. The sweat should hold until it's secure in whatever safe Faultline has in mind. Finding what I’m looking for, I hook a claw through the two sets of keys for the trucks and step out of the office, with Newter a little way behind me,

I pace back down the corridors, taking in the familiar scent of old wood, and the sickening smell of plaster that came up when I ripped my doorway out of the walls. My tank is gone, so I move deeper into the building, looking for the PRT guys. I step into the living room.

There’s a girl standing in front of my tank, peering around the edges of it with naked curiosity. Blonde hair falls in ringlets down to her shoulders, and she’s wearing a blue dress with white accents that looks like it’s come straight from Wonderland. Six of the PRT guys are scattered on the ground around her, in pools of their own blood, while the last two are facing me, their helmets abandoned on the floor beside them. They’re a man and a woman, a redhead and a brunette, and they’re both looking at me with the same rictus of fear, their pistols pressed against their chins.

I hear the slightest creak of a floorboard as Newter steps into the corridor behind me. I flick my right hand, once, in a wordless signal and the creak stops. He doesn’t know what’s here, can’t see what I see, but he knows enough to run off and get help when I signal. Our flares were being carried by the PRT guys; he’s the only hope we have.

I don’t move. The message offered by the two hostages is clear enough that even _I_ can understand it. Instead I wait there on all fours, while _Bonesaw_ pokes around my lifeline with childish fascination. I can’t see any of her _creations,_ but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. _Something_ has to be Mastering the hostages, and I’m just lucky that it hasn’t taken me over as well.

Abruptly, the girl, _Bonesaw_ , pirouettes on her heels to face me, her eyes lighting up as she grins from ear to ear.

“You’re amazing!”

I take a half-step forwards, a low noise building at the back of my throat, only to freeze as Bonesaw’s smile widens, and the two hostages press their guns even further into their throat.

“Bad girl! It’s rude to snarl at people you’ve only just met!”

She scowls at me, before snapping her fingers as she seems to remember something.

“Ah! I forgot to introduce myself! I guess we were both being rude…”

She clasps her hands behind her back and her smile widens a little, the skin of her cheeks not moving quite like it should. She’s augmented herself.

“I’m Bonesaw! Uncle Jack told me about you, but he didn’t think you’d be very interesting. I decided to visit anyway, and boy am I glad I did!”

She steps forwards and it takes every scrap of my mind to stop me from giving into my fear and lashing out at her. I focus on the looks of genuine horror on the faces of the troopers, and I realise that I can’t remember what they’re called. They told me their names, but I didn’t bother to remember them.

“Don’t worry,” Bonesaw says, as she _puts her hand on my shoulder._ “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She idly strokes a charred bit of flesh.

“Mimi can be so _mean_ sometimes, can’t she? At least she’s made this wonderful cross-section. I can see all the way through to your muscles, but there’s still enough skin to get a picture of the whole! It’s _way_ better than seeing you intact.”

Her fingers start poking around in my wounds and I flinch reflexively as Bonesaw coos over the wriggling tendons. I find myself looking at the hostages again, frozen in place. My eyes drift from one to the other, halting as I catch sight of my reflection in the tank, and the reflection of the serial killer who’s poking around in my innards like a kid in a sweet shop.

I see the back of the hostages’ heads too, and I notice something _odd._ There should be a flash of bright red hair reflected in the makeshift mirror and there is a little patch of it, but most of it is dark. I look at it even closer, as Bonesaw moves on to my tendrils, and I start to get the idea that it’s _hollow_. There’s a hole in his head, and I think I can see something moving around inside it.

I think the hostages are already dead. Part of me wants them to be. Even if I’m wrong, is this really going to save them? There’s no reasoning with a monster like this.

It’s strange; I don’t want to fight her right now. My fear is my edge, but only because it pushes my _mind_ into overdrive. Fight or flight has never really applied to me, but sometimes fighting isn’t the answer. Sometimes you have to wait, to lure your enemy in and strike when they’re most vulnerable.

So I wait, until Bonesaw steps back from my body to get a good view of the whole thing.

My tendrils unfurl like the petals of a flower, blades spearing through the faces of the two ‘hostages.’ I feel the all-too-familiar resistance of a human skull, followed by a strange, harder, shell. Once the spikes kiss the open air I pull them back, letting the two corpses fall to the ground along with the biomechanical spiders that were puppetting them.

Immediately I turn on Bonesaw, bringing down the remaining to tendrils in an attempt to skewer down through her body on either side of her neck. She twists and leaps out of my way, her spine twisting unnaturally, and for a moment she’s backpedalling on legs that bend the wrong way. All the while, there’s that same fucking grin on her face.

“You’re so _clever!_ I think you’re the best-made creature I’ve ever _seen!_ There isn’t a single piece wasted.” She somehow manages to look awkward while ducking underneath a claw swipe that would have torn her throat out.

“Makes me feel a little embarrassed about my own work, but I was in a rush.”

There’s a sound from behind me, and a massive steel fist slams into my cheek, smashing me through the sofas and the dining table. An automaton is standing in the centre of the room, steam pouring from vents around its body. For a second I think of Trainwreck, the steam-powered Merchant, but then splintered chunks of wood from the table start to slide across the floor, disappearing into the bulk of the armoured suit before integrating themselves into the machinery, making the armour more complete.

It strides forwards, curling back an armoured fist, driving me through the wall and into Gregor’s room, scattering bookshelves and splintering artwork. I eye his armour, noting the shifting seams and joints, and drive twin tendrils into the core of the Cape, pulling them back in a spray of blood. It doesn’t seem affected by the loss, powering through the pain, but if it bleeds, it can die. Chunks of splintered wood from the wall start to creep up the side of the monster, sealing up the gaps in the armour while the twin steam engines on its back groan and shudder with effort. Trainwreck wasn’t able to do that before, but I’m pretty sure this is the same Cape I fought in the mall.

I feint left, before ducking around the right side of the Tinker, looping a tendril around one of the exposed pipes and hauling it loose, not caring that it sends a burst of scorching hot steam down the length of my wounded body. All that matters is the effect it has on Tranwreck. The Case-53 shudders like he’s having a stroke, but I can already see moving parts beneath the armour as his power repairs the damage. I have to move, now.

I drive my talons into the back of the Cape’s knee, splintering Gregor’s bed as I knock him to the floor. The space is tight, cramped, but I still have just enough room to get a good grip on his chest plate, pulling it down like a diner removing the shell from a lobster, looking for the gooey centre within.

It’s Trainwreck, that’s for sure, but it’s so much worse than that. Beneath the armour is a layer of green ooze, maybe five centimetres thick. Mush’s power. The _creature_ inside that padding is an abomination, a homunculus of Mush and Trainwreck, stitched together with all the care of a bored child pulling the wings off a fly. I’m no stranger to blood and guts, and enough time in the back of the lorry with Ivrina has long since got rid of any aversion to surgery, but this is something else.

With Ivrina, everything was about precision. She’d spent close to a decade as a surgical nurse before coming to us, and she took to our work with even more care and attention than she’d shown her human patients. When she was splicing Khanivore together, she turned the back of our lorry into a clean room. It was her own private kingdom, one I didn’t get to see for months, not until I was in Khanivore looking out. After every fight, the same would happen again, until I was all patched up and safely stowed in my tank. If she could see the state I’ve let this body fall into, she’d have my hide.

But none of that care has gone into this monstrosity. It’s held together with seemingly random patterns of stitching and heavy metal staples and its dead eyes are bloodshot and misshapen. Even so, it still manages drive me back with another right hook, and it has just enough presence of mind to pull the metal chest piece back onto itself, sealing it tight with the broken slats of Gregor’s bed. It’s built for brute force by a brute with no skill whatsoever, just the slapdash knowledge she’s been _given_ by her power.

The abomination catches me again, driving me through the wall and into the girl’s romm, crouching Elle’s bed beneath my weight. Bonesaw is there, bouncing a little on top of Emily’s bed while she watches her creation attack me.

“This is a sad room.”

There’s something in her tone that drives me mad, and I momentarily forget her minion to try and gut the mastermind herself. Instead, I feel a hand curl around my tenril and throw me out into the corridor. Trainwreck is getting bigger, Mush’s power adding every scrap of broken wood and metal to his already immense bulk. Every punch he throws sends me careening into the walls, either boxing me in or smashing through them to add yet more bulk to his armour. This battlefield doesn’t suit me.

I reach up, grabbing Trainwreck by the scruff of his neck, and sending him staggering off balance towards the stairs, before sending him down to the VIP area with a kick to his back. He lands face-down, and I take the chance to get as many tendrils through as many gaps in his armour as I can, even as Mush’s power actively fights against the intrusion, gathering wood pulp and plaster to force the bone-blades out and close the cuts.

So I shift my focus; it’s not the man that matters, but the machinery. Trainwreck can’t move under his own power, and I doubt Mush’s presence helped him much. I need to destroy the machine, the armour. I start tearing chunks away from his knees, trying to move faster than he can repair himself. It quickly becomes clear that I can’t, that Mush’s power is too widely spread throughout the body. The best I can hope is to delay him, and this isn’t the best place for that. There’s still too much stuff that’ll be destroyed and added to his mass.

I grab Trainwreck by the back of his armour, dragging him over to the empty windows while he writhes and flails. He’s too heavy for me to lift, but I don’t need to carry him. Instead, I just step out of the window, and use my weight to pull him down, scrambling up on top of him before he hits the dance floor, cracking the gleaming reflective surface that’s somehow managed to hold its shine through all the shit that’s happened since Leviathan.

Unfortunately, it seems that Trainwreck’s legs have finished reassembling themselves. They’re smaller than they once were, making him move like an oversized metal gorilla rather than a man in an armoured suit, but he’s still just as tough. As I duck and weave around his blows, darting in with my claws and talons to try and cause death by a thousand cuts, I see Bonesaw dangling her legs out of the hole I left in the VIP room, looking down on the fight with slowly fading interest.

“You’re not that special, are you?”

I dodge an immense fist, trying and failing to wrap my claws around it and use it to throw the metal monstrosity over my shoulder.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. You’re _really_ well made. I think you’re the best craftsmanship I’ve ever seen, even if you need that silly tank.”

An opportunity opens, and I drive a single spike right through the neck of the suit, bisecting Trainwreck’s throat, maybe even severing his spine. He staggers uncertainly for an instant, and I follow up on the strike by ripping one of the engines on his back, filling the air with scalding hot steam that’s still nothing compared to Burnscar’s flames. But before I can exploit that win, can reach a hand in to tear his spine from his exposed back, Mush’s power kicks in, taking the place of Trainwreck as it controls the armoured suit.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about!” Bonesaw exclaims. “You’re a great creature, but you haven’t got any powers at all! You’re a blank canvas, and I can’t wait to see what art I can make with you!”

I stumble, and Trainwreck sweeps my leg back before falling on top of me, pinning my tendrils down while holding my right arm behind my back. A little more pressure and he’ll break the bone. All I can do is flail uselessly with my left hand, as my head is bent back to look at Bonesaw.

“I’ve got so many options to choose from! There are the Merchants, of course, but I feel like using them would be a little disrespectful… They were very dirty people, and you’re so _pure_. Oh well,” she drops down to the dance floor, not caring at all about the distance as muscle-coils in her legs contract to absorb the shock. “I’ll have plenty of time to decide, and there are always more Passengers to choose from. I could even try and get you a Passenger of your own, but that might be a little mean…”

Is she talking about powers?

“Anyway,” her arm expands as a hidden needle extends from her forearm, “I don’t have to decide right now. You know,” she stops, seemingly deep in thought, while I struggle against Trainwreck’s cast-iron grip, “I always wanted a pet. Ooh! I’ll have to show you to my new sister! I bet she’ll love you just as much as I will!”

The Palanquin, like every nightclub, strip club and casino ever made, exists in a sort of permanent twilight. There are no windows to the outside, no clocks to show the passage of time. The owners of places like this want people to get lost in the vibe, want them to stay here for longer than they should so that they’ll spend more money on drink or tits or gambling.

It means that when the light hits me, my first thought is that Bonesaw has hit me with a psychedelic. I’ve been fighting Trainwreck in dingy corridors without any power, and there’s only the faintest bit of light-bleed on the dance floor itself. The sudden presence of sunlight is almost blinding and, with my ears ringing and the weight suddenly gone from my back, part of me feels like this might be the end.

Instead, when my eyes adjust to the midday sun now streaming through a hole in the roof, I see Trainwreck crumpled into a pulped mass of wood and metal and blood, with a girl in a gold and white dress flecked with gore as she takes flight again, looming over Bonesaw. A wave of crippling fear hits me, and I want to rush forwards, to strike and maim and kill, but that same fear holds me back, tells me to bide my time. My edge, keeping me alive once more.

“Give me back my sister!” the girl, _Glory Girl_ , shouts to Bonesaw, ignoring me completely. Bonesaw simply smirks back, uncaring as the older girl’s hands curl up into fists.

“I haven’t got her! Not until she passes the tests!”

“You twisted her! Made her run away!”

 _“Made her?”_ Bonesaw giggles. “You _made_ her suppress her power, when she could have been so much more! Someone so versatile stuck playing _Doctor_ for a family that’s _afraid_ of her. I’ll be a better sister to her than you ever were!”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

Glory Girl streaks forwards, smashing into the spot where Bonesaw had just been. The killer herself had already bounded out of the way, looking shocked and appalled, though I can’t tell why. Glory Girl turns in midair, charging towards Bonesaw before faltering as a man appears in front of her, a muscled hand wrapping tightly around her neck.

The man, the teleporter, isn’t masked, and his eyes are as lifeless as Trainwreck’s were. He’s enormous, with a body that ripples with musculature that seems natural, rather than Bonesaw’s slapdash work. More important, is the fact that Glory Girl can only weakly struggle against his grip, and she’s hanging limp in his arms rather than flying. As she struggles against him, she looks just like the teenage girl she’s always been. Is this what powers do? Turn teenagers, turn _children,_ into people like her, people like Bonesaw?

The man is holding a hatchet in his other hand and as he brings it towards his captive I see more obvious signs of Bonesaw’s modifications. There’s a man spliced to his back, nothing more than a few organs and a face with a mouth that opens and closes wordlessly. The abomination drags his axe down Glory Girl’s thigh, and I act.

I pounce forwards, tendrils splayed out in front of me. If he’s stronger than Trainwreck, stronger than Glory Girl, then I can’t kill him. But Glory Girl can’t fly anymore, and I don’t have any powers for him to take. I spear him downwards through the shoulders and right through the joint of his left elbow, causing his grip on his captive to fail. Something bubbles up inside him and his face starts to melt into bloody ash, as the body collapses in on itself. I’m not stupid enough to believe I’ve killed him.

But he’s gone, and Bonesaw seems to have left with him. I turn my eyes to the teenager lying on the ground, to the steady stream of blood that’s spurting out of her thigh. Already I can see that same anger come to her face, can feel that same fear working its way into my mind. She wants to go, to chase Bonesaw down and kill her, and I know I probably can’t stop her, I know that my fear is screaming at me to just let her go, but I can’t. I can’t watch a child kill herself.

She tries to rise, but I push her down, holding as much pressure on her thigh as possible. She starts to scream at me, wordless and incoherent, and I know it’s just a matter of time before she decides to remove me by force. So I do the only thing I can think of. I let go of her thigh and rub the blood across her face, holding up a bloody red hand so that she can see how bad she’s injured. She might decide to go anyway, might decide that she doesn’t care about her injury as much as she does the fight. I’ve seen capes do it before. Fuck, I’ve done it before.

Instead she just lies back, gently hovering as I pull her over to the first aid kit behind the bar. She doesn’t say a word as I wrap her leg in gauze, doesn’t speak at all until Miss Militia bursts into the room with her gun raised and two full squads of PRT officers at her back. Even then, she doesn’t talk to me. She just exchanges a few terse words with Miss Militia before going with the medics.

Miss Militia shakes my hand, and thanks me on her behalf. The look on her face can’t be faked. It’s fear, surprise and gratitude all mixed into one, almost overwhelmed by an undercurrent of terrible weariness. It seems that not even Capes like seeing children go to war.


	76. Asylum - 11.05

It’s funny how quickly you can lose your grasp of day and night when you aren’t keeping track of it. The little tells of light and darkness kind of lose all meaning when you spend most of your time switching from the perpetually-lit corridors of the PRT building to the inky blackness of the tank, so dark that I can’t even see my claws in front of my face. Every few hours someone will come along to drag me out of wherever I’d been hiding, and I’ll follow them like a mute little dog as we step out into the streets of a world gone mad.

Sometimes I’m shadowing the Wards as they fly the flag, keeping up the image of security while keeping the kids themselves out of as much of the fighting as possible. Even in the middle of all this, people still mug and rob and rape, and with the Police reluctant to leave their precincts in anything less than convoys of three vehicles, it’s fallen to the Wards to pick up the slack. Playing hero is a bit of a novelty, but it’s still a depressing reality; they’re sending out children and mercenaries to police the city, because everyone else has more important things to do.

Sometimes they need me for less glamorous stuff. I’m strong, and a lot of the vehicles in this city went down with their circuit boards. If they need someone to carry in some new equipment to the hospitals, to lug around comms gear for the PRT or the Police, then I’m the woman they turn to. Sometimes it’s worse than that, sometimes they need someone who can climb over the rubble, digging out the bodies and leaving them in piles by the side of the road, covered in big white sheets so that somebody else can load them up into the back of the truck that’ll take them out of the city.

The rest of the time, I’m generally on-call with the Protectorate itself, running ourselves ragged in an attempt to bring down one of the bastards, or at least drive them back before they can do too much damage. One of the factions out there has managed to get the Nine to agree not to test everyone simultaneously, with each member taking turns instead. It’s lifted the pressure in some ways, but it means there’s a whole lot of bored serial killers floating around the city. It’s all we can do to keep on top of their ‘entertainment,’ and there are some that we simply can’t stop, no matter how hard we try.

I don’t know how long it’s been since Netwer staggered in, telling tales of a woman striped in black and white like a monochrome tiger, a woman who shrugged off everything the heroes could throw at her while she tore her way through a shelter. Or the monster I caught a glimpse of in the distance, while I was evacuating the perimeter around a battle. A six-legged Beastie the size of a van, with misshapen limbs and tendrils jutting out of his flesh at odd angles, and a forest of eyes, scales, spines, chitin and bristling fur scattered across his black body. The design was haphazard and random, the result of mutation rather than deliberate sculpting, but there was a horrible efficiency to it, a hidden strength that dwarfed my own.

They called it, called _him,_ Crawler. I guess when you’re that powerful, you don’t need a badass name to maintain your image. His reputation is built on the back of thousands of corpses, and the short glimpse I had of him had all my instincts flaring, screaming at me to run and never come back.

I don’t know how long it’s been since then. Probably not more than a couple of days, but it feels like so much longer. I feel like my life has been reduced to a series of moments, brief memories interspersed by whatever sleep I can scratch out inside the tank before someone else inevitably comes knocking and drags me out into the city once again.

At least I don’t have to deal with the fucking press; the vultures have come down on the city to pick at its carcass, or at least to take pictures of the body, and people across the whole country are turning their TVs on over dinner to watch shots of corpse-heaps covered by white sheets and interviews with haggard Protectorate personnel while ominous mercenaries loom in the background; an uncomfortable piece of realpolitik the Protectorate aren’t quite willing to admit to.

Somebody raps on the front of my tank, knocking me out of my thoughts, and I sigh a little. Not that there’s any air in my lungs to sigh with right now, but it’s the thought that counts. I pull the lever, waiting patiently as the fluid drains out and dozens of different aches and pains start to press against my head. I’m healing, even if it is happening agonisingly slowly, but it’s a bit of a double-edged sword. As my nervous system grows back in, it’s bringing the ache of the injuries with it. I’m just fortunate that I don’t feel pain the same way a human does, or I’d probably be screaming my head off.

I pull the door aside and half step, half fall out into the space the PRT have given over to us. It used to be an indoor gun range, I think, but they’ve set up a few camp cots along one of the walls, my tank and lockers for our gear against the other, and let Faultline change the code on the big safe at the end of the range so that we have somewhere to keep our valuables. It’s a little spartan, but it’s better than most have right now.

The PRT have been flooding personnel into the city, to the point where we could fill the streets with hundreds of black-clad soldiers if we wanted to, but that’s caused a lot of problems in and of itself. With the Protectorate Headquarters destroyed by Leviathan, all their Capes and personnel moved into this building, and with so many out-of-towners swelling the ranks it’s become hard to house them all. The PRT have even appropriated Police precincts and abandoned buildings across the city, turning them into fortified barracks. It’s not even what the city needs; after Shatterbird’s attack, good comms equipment became far more valuable than good people, and they’re only beginning to get everything set up again.

As I blink away my dizziness at the sudden switch from the pitch-black tank to the harsh artificial light of our quarters, I spot Faultline standing a little way back from the door. Spitfire learned the hard way not to stand too close when I’m coming out, and I really need to apologise for that. Since then, everyone’s been a little more careful, myself included.

Faultline steps closer, holding out a carboard box.

“Here. It finally arrived.”

I take the package from her hand, a little hesitantly, before tearing the top off it with my claws. Faultline gives me a bit of a dirty look at that, but when you have knives on the end of your fingers it tends to lead to a certain method of problem solving.

The package is small, filled with about a dozen identical grey devices. I pull one out, flicking the tiny switch on the back with a claw, and immediately feel the slight connection of an affinity link. Immediately I press it against my throat, feeling the small spikes digging into my flesh, and beam like a madwoman at Faultline.

“Fucking finally! You have no idea how good it feels to talk again, boss. I owe you for this.”

“No, you don’t owe me a thing.”

I start to protest, but she holds up a hand.

“I already took the cost out of your cut for the job. Cost a bit more than I was expecting, too. Cranial hiked up the price for some reason.”

It only takes a second before I’m laughing my head off at the sly grin on her face, animalistic howls and chitters mixing with the all-too-human sound of my old voice, or at least the synthesized conception of what my old voice sounded like.

“Never fucking change, boss.”

“It’s the strangest thing, but I think I was starting to miss the sound of your vulgar voice echoing through the halls.”

I beam at her, all teeth and tongue and heartfelt feelings, and claps an immense hand on her shoulder. She lets her stony façade crack a little as a slight smile creeps across her face, a minute acknowledgement of my own gratitude, before she schools herself, pulling her helmet back over her face.

“As touching as all this is, I’m needed elsewhere. You’ve got a few hours scheduled before your next patrol; I suggest you enjoy them.”

“Yes Ma’am!” I take my hand off her shoulder to give her a mock salute, as she shakes her head in exasperation and leaves the room. I stand there for a while, simply savouring the sound of my own voice.

“I am not the pheasant plucker, I’m the pheasant plucker’s mate. I am only plucking pheasants, because the pheasant plucker’s late!”

Granted, I’m cheating a little. Without any tongue to twist, tongue twisters are more than a little trivial. But then, what would be the point in reciting pub crawl tongue twisters if you didn’t take the chance to swear?

“I am not the peasant fucker, I’m the peasant fucker’s mate. I am only fucking peasants, because the peasant fucker’s late!”

“Could you please _not?”_

I spin on my heels to see Spitfire sitting up from the cot she’d been sleeping on, hunting around on the ground for something to throw before finally settling on one of her big black boots.

“If you’re going to swear, _please_ take it somewhere people aren’t trying to sleep.”

“Right…” I rub the back of my neck awkwardly. “Sorry about that.” My eyes dart over to the other sleeping figure; thank fuck I haven’t woken Elle!

“Listen, Sonnie, it’s great that you’ve got your voice back and I have missed it but can you _please_ go and be loud somewhere else?”

“Yeah, no worries.”

I leave her to her sleep, stepping out of the door and muttering dirty limericks under my breath. The corridors are still full of people rushing about in what could charitably be described as organised chaos. There’re fewer armed squads than I first thought there’s be, but then there’s not really much of a reason for them to be rushing from place to place inside their own headquarters. Instead, most of the people I see are electricians, rushing around and putting the finishing touches on all the different computer systems needed to run this place.

The PRT guys move aside as I amble through the corridors, none of them really spare me a second chance. I guess when your job is to be the Cape police, anyone who’d freak out or go starry eyed around them doesn’t last long. For all that they shift naturally around me, though, I can’t help but feel like a bull in a china shop. It doesn’t help that the corridors are almost uncomfortably narrow, and I’m consciously aware that I’m the only person in this corridor who doesn’t have a job to be doing.

So I walk through the corridors until I find one of the rooms with windows, or with the gaping holes where windows used to be. I’m slightly surprised to see daylight streaming through the gaping hole in the wall, but I’ve come to accept that concepts like ‘day’ and ‘night’ aren’t something I can afford right now. I just blink away the sun until my eyes have adjusted, and drop two stories to the pavement.

People are still busy here, but there’s a lot more space for me to lurk in. I scan my eyes over the dozens of PRT officers on the perimeter, and the few heroes standing guard, but I don’t see anyone I recognise. Just one of the New York capes; they’ve been stuck here since day one, as Bonesaw threatened to release a plague if they joined the fight. It’s not an empty threat either; I saw photos of the one she unleashed on the Merchants, one that made the infected explode and infected anyone who got hit by the chunks. A far cry from the almost amateurish surgery work I saw on her pet Capes.

I lean back against a wrecked car, as a convoy of vehicles creeps through the gate. The lead vehicle disgorges a squad or so of officers, while a body bag is brought out of the last one on a metal gurney. Weld steps out of the middle van, his metal body almost gleaming in the sunlight, and I perk up a little, staggering to my feet and lumbering over to him. He’s followed by the white-clad Ward I saw at the meeting, as well as the girl in purple who was with Newter and Glory Girl.

“Oi oi, Weld. Haven’t seen you in a while.”

He turns from the purple-clad Ward he was talking to, smiling as he spots me.

“Sonnie. I see you found your voice again.”

I brush the voicebox with a claw, feeling the dimples of the inbuilt speaker.

“Yeah, Faultline ordered them in from Cranial.”

“Cranial? I’m not familiar.”

“Toybox Tinker. She does brains. It’s basically a thought-to-speech device.”

“Sounds sophisticated,” he turns to the two Wards behind him. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve introduced you to Flechette and Clockblocker.”

“Like fuck that’s his name.”

The white chad cape steps forwards, his posture easy even if I can’t see his expressions behind his full-face mask.

“Oh, it’s real. I like to think it’s my job to lighten the mood.”

“How the fuck did you get the feds to sign off on calling yourself that?”

“This coming from Khanivore?”

I lean back a little, going from all fours to standing, and puff out my chest.

“I’m a vicious mercenary. You’re supposed to be a living action figure.”

Weld steps in while Clockblocker just stares at me. He’s probably grinning at me, but his opaque faceplate isn’t doing him any favours in that regard.

“You two head off for now, I need to have a word with Sonnie.”

“Go right ahead,” Clockblocker retorts, while Flechette just slinks off, “I don’t even want to think about the sort of depraved sex the two of you can have.”

“Fuck off, Cockblocker,” I snap back, leaning back a little further to loom over him before dropping back to all fours once he’s out of earshot.

“So _those_ are the cats you have to herd.”

“They’re not that bad,” Weld responds as he starts walking towards the PRT building. “They’ve just been through a lot. Apart from Flechette and I, they’re all locals.”

That explains a lot. Weld steps ahead briefly, waving down the PRT medics who are wheeling the body bag in. I follow, more than a little interested in what he’s doing.

“Anyway, I do need to talk to you. Burnscar was killed last night, I thought you deserved to know.”

Fucking hell. I knew something was going on, but I didn’t realise it was that big.

“How?”

“We don’t know,” his answer is blunt, but in an honest way. “There was a lot of fighting last night, Hookwolf’s coalition and the Undersiders/Travellers alliance both hit the Nine. We found Burnscar’s body a few hours ago.”

I don’t speak, instead pacing over to the body bag and bringing myself back onto two legs so that I’m looking down on it. I bring my claws up to the zip then, when nobody moves to stop me, pull it down.

Something’s crushed her head, fracturing straight through the dermal mesh and splintering the bone-lattice in her skull like it’s not even there. She’s wearing a red t-shirt and black jeans, but it’s still unmistakably the same woman who attacked us.

“It’s funny. She seemed like a force of nature, but now…”

I pull out a bone-fragment, feeling the unnatural lattice as it splinters a little.

“Must have taken one hell of a force to get through this…”

“You’ve seen this sort of modification before?”

“Hmm?” I lost myself a little poking at the mesh. “Yeah. It’s some pretty tough stuff, but it has its limitations. The subdermal mesh is good, but it’s not so great with oblique angles. Try to stab them side on, or deliberately go for grazing shots. If you can get a big enough gash, you can pull on it and peel the skin right off them. Of course, with enough force you can get through it anyway, same as the bone-lattice here.”

“You really know a lot about this stuff,” Weld muses to himself.

“Yeah. I have something of a professional interest when it comes to combat bioengineering. I’m sure you understand why.”

“Anyway, I figured you should know.” He looks at me a little sheepishly for a moment. “If anything, it might help Labyrinth to have some closure.”

I sigh, through my throat rather than the voice box.

“Thanks, but I think the damage has been done there. It took her months to get to where she was, and Burnscar undid all that work in a few minutes. She’ll come back to us; it’ll just take time.”

There’s an awkward silence, as I zip up the bodybag and push the gurney towards the waiting medics, before the quiet gets a little too much for me.

“Anyway, you said they got Burnscar. Anything else happen last night?”

He sighs, moving back towards the PRT building, back out of the way of the people flooding in and out as they go about their business.

“Yeah, but it’s mixed news. The good part is that Shatterbird and Cherish were taken out of the fight as well.”

“Good news? Sounds like fucking fantastic news to me.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it is. Shatterbird was one of the strongest members of the Nine, and Cherish was one of their most versatile. The problem is that both of them were captured by the Undersiders, and we believe they’re now controlling them.”

“They can do that?”

He nods, a serious expression on his face, before sitting on the sidewalk, looking out over the street. I lie down next to him, enjoying the feeling of warmth on my skin. You have to take the quiet moments when you can, because they don’t happen often.

“One of their members, Regent, used to go by Hijack. We knew it, and we think he knew we knew it. He’s basically on the run from his father, and since he was pretending his powers were far weaker than they actually are it was decided not to actively hunt him down.”

I can’t quite read Weld, but it seems like something about this is hitting him hard.

“So what changed?”

“Leviathan, again. The Undersiders found their ambition, so they kidnapped one of my Wards and took control of her body. They tried to use her to infiltrate the PRT building itself.”

He leans back against a concrete pillar, looking up at the clouds.

“I’d been here for less than a week, and I’d already lost one of the people I’m responsible for. In my two years in Boston, not a single Villain went after a Ward’s civilian identity. Then I come here, and it’s like stepping into a third world country. And it’s only going to get worse.”

“Dangerous time to be in law enforcement…” I muse, looking out over perimeter of our fortified enclave.

“Dangerous for you too,” Weld looks at me seriously. “This gang conflict is only going to escalate from here, and if any of them actually _win_ then they won’t tolerate an independent operation like yours.”

I snort, grinning a little. “Yeah. Truth is, we’re probably not going to be here for it. It’s long past time we left the city.”

“Looking for greener pastures?”

“Not really. The Bay worked because it was dangerous enough that the Heroes had more important things to do than go after a team of fairly inoffensive mercenaries who don’t commit crimes on their patch. If we go somewhere nicer, somewhere like Boston maybe, then the Protectorate would be a lot more likely to crack down on us. The problem is that the Bay’s become too dangerous, to the point where we’re stuck here because the Palanquin wouldn’t survive if we left. We’ve got to find somewhere else in that sweet spot between safety and danger.”

“You don’t have to,” Weld says, looking me right in the eyes. “The Protectorate have hired you for this; who’s to say they wouldn’t be willing to keep you on retainer?”

I laugh, just a little. “You couldn’t afford us. Besides, I’ve never trusted corporations or governments or, well, any large group. I don’t think they’re evil, or anything like that,” I say as I spot the look on his face, “I just don’t think they care. Or maybe they care about the wrong things.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The bigger you are, the more people you interact with. After a while, they stop being people and they just become numbers. Sometimes that number is profit, sometimes it’s a budget and sometimes it’s crime quotas, but the people in these big groups forget that there are people in the numbers as well. Once you forget that, it becomes easier to cut and squeeze the numbers to make them bigger or smaller; whatever works best for the organisation.”

“I don’t agree,” Weld says, straightening his back a little as he seems to firm up, “Certainly we deal with statistics, but that’s because of the sheer number of people we reach. The idea of a lone ranger dispensing frontier justice has its charms, but it’s impractical. The world is a whole lot bigger than it used to be, and law enforcement needs to be bigger to have an effect.”

“But the bigger you are, the more people like Labyrinth slip through the cracks.”

“I’m not saying the system is perfect, and I find what happened to Labyrinth abhorrent. I’m just saying that it’s the best we have. I’ve spent most of the life I can remember in the Wards, and I’m still confident that it’s the best way to help the most people.”

I smile a little, shifting my body under the dull heat of the sun. “I guess that’s the real difference; I don’t much care about ‘the most people.’ I know that people get lost in the numbers because I don’t care about them either. I care about family; not the family you’re born with, but the family you choose. You might think the Wards are your family, but they still moved you down here, still took you away from Boston. You told me Director Armstrong was like a father to you, but you’re still here.”

“I asked to come here,” he retorts, a little sharply but not defensively, “I wasn’t forced into it. The opportunity came up, and I decided to accept the offer. I fought Leviathan through these streets, and I wanted to do what I could to help rebuild.”

“That’s what I like about you, but how can you be sure the PRT didn’t have other concerns? It’d be pretty good optics to have a Case-53 leading a Wards team, and you’re probably the most photogenic one out there. Never mind that you’ve got people you care about back in Boston.”

“Yes, I left people that I care about,” he says, looking like I’ve touched a nerve, “but I can’t stay in Boston forever. There’s a whole world out there, and I’m not going to shut myself away in a safe little corner of it because it’s _easy_ or _comfortable_. Not when I can make a difference: for the people I care about, the Case-53s, for everyone.”

He’s silent for a few moments, and I’m silent too. He stands, but I don’t. I just look up at him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to strike a nerve. I’ve spent my whole life living in that grey space between safety and danger, and I guess it’s rubbed off on me a little. We’ve been shaped by our experiences, you and I, and I think you’ve come off the better for it. Your idealism is why I like you, Weld. It’s something I lost long ago, and I hope the same never happens to you. Far as I’m concerned, the Protectorate is lucky to have you.”

“The Wards. I’m not in the Protectorate yet, but thanks.”

“Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that.” I haul myself to my feet. “It’s not like you have a birth certificate, or a body that ages. How did they tell?”

“Cognitive tests. Once I’d calmed down a little, they had me sit through a battery of exams and psychological evaluations. It was a bit overwhelming at times, but the psych stuff helped me figure out the shape for this body, among other things.”

“Oh? So there’s nothing stopping you from becoming a cute metal girl?”

Weld laughs, a strange sound reverberating from a metal throat, but at least I’ve lightened the mood a little. I think I understand why he vented at me, of all people; he doesn’t really have anyone else. Everyone in the Wards here works for him, plus he’s an outsider, so he can’t vent to them, and everyone he works with from the PRT or Protectorate outranks him. Sure, there might be a psychologist he can talk to, but psychologists are no substitute for genuine friends.

I think I’m the best option he has, and isn’t that a depressing thought?

My voice box crackles as a transmission comes through on the radio. Seems like Faultline already tuned it into the PRT frequency we’ve been using.

“All Parahuman personnel proceed to Briefing Room C.”

I jog a little to catch up to Weld, who’d walked on ahead a little.

“Hey, Weld. Where’s Briefing Room C?”

“Wasn’t this covered in your orientation?”

I lower my head and look up at him a little sheepishly.

“I wasn’t really paying attention, to be honest. I don’t need to know where the fire exits are when I can just climb down the side of the building.”

What comes out of Weld’s mouth is half-exasperated sigh and half-laughter.

“Follow me.”

Somehow, Weld is able to navigate the byzantine corridors of the PRT building like a natural, ducking down side corridors and hallways that I could have sworn weren’t there when I last came this way. Getting out is easy, I just walk in a straight line until I hit a window and then climb down the side of the building, but getting in is next to impossible. It’s probably deliberately designed like that to confuse attackers.

Briefing Room C is more like a theatre than anything else, with tiered seating arranged in a semicircle around a central point where the Director herself is standing, Legend shadowing her. The Capes are roughly divided between the local Protectorate, the Wards, the Capes from New York and, every so slightly shunned by the rest, Faultline and the rest of the Crew. Weld goes off to join with the rest of his Wards, while I move to lurk awkwardly on the steps next to the Crew. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to fit in one of those seats.

The Director clears her throat, and what little conversation there was peters off into silence. Director Piggot may not look like much, but she’s got an intimidating air about her. It probably helps that she’s got one of the three strongest people in the world standing behind her.

“We have three priorities,” she begins, her voice clear and crisp. She’s obviously used to leadership. “We take down the Nine, we regain control of the city, and we _don’t die.”_

No arguments here, boss lady. Still, if I know capes, there’ll be more than a few who are disappointed they don’t have an excuse to throw themselves into the biggest fight around.

“There’s no point in winning now if any of you die or get converted to the enemy side by Regent or Bonesaw. Even if we were to defeat the Nine outright, through some stroke of fortune, I harbour concerns that we’d lose the city without the manpower to defend it. It’s a dangerous situation.”

She clicks a button, and a projector whirs into life above my head. It’s some real primitive shit, projecting a flat map of the city onto a blank patch of wall. I can’t help but note that the map is divided into gang territories, including a little patch of green around the Palanquin.

“The Nine have the advantage of power. Not necessarily in terms of the abilities at their disposal, but in terms of their ability to affect change and shape everything that occurs. They are our number one priority, obviously. With them gone, if nothing else, I can hope that more capes will be willing to venture into the city to help out.”

It seems like this briefing is tailored more towards the Heroes than to us. I guess we should count ourselves lucky that they’re willing to have us here at all, rather than keeping us in the dark and using us like disposable shock-troops. Faultline’s reputation really does open all sorts of doors.

“But we’re operating with a deadline, and the Undersiders and Travelers have just moved it up dramatically. The Nine posed their challenge, and they’re losing. There’s now four ’rounds’ of Jack’s little game remaining. Twelve days, depending on their successes and failures in the future. I’ve talked it over with Legend, and we’re both working under the impression that the Nine will enact whatever ‘penalty’ they mentioned in the terms for their game. Our working assumption is a biological weapon.”

If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Of course, everyone here knows that it’s not a question of _if_ Bonesaw will release a plague, but _when._ The only reason they wouldn’t is if things were going so well for them that they felt they didn’t need to. Losing three members in a single night is not ‘going well.’

“In short, our worst-case scenario is the Nine feeling spiteful or cornered, and deploying this weapon. When we attack, we need to make it an absolute victory, without allowing them an opportunity. Wards, I know you’re not obligated to help in this kind of high-risk situation. This is strictly voluntary, and I’ve had to discuss the matter with your parents to get permission to even raise the subject, but I would value and appreciate your help on this front.”

I can see a few uneasy glances passing between the Wards. Noticeably, Weld, Glory Girl and Flechette don’t seem phased at all. I guess their situations are a little different to the others.

“If you could raise your hand if you’re willing to participate?” the Director asks, piling on a little social pressure. Sure enough, led by the three confident ones, almost all of the Wards put a hand in the air.

“Thank you. Rest assured, Chariot, Kid Win, that I harbour no ill will.”

“My mom wouldn’t forgive me if I went.”

God, they’re so fucking _young._ Sometimes I forget just how many of the Capes I’ve been meeting are still in school.

“I understand. Now, the Nine are only one threat. Let’s talk about the others.” The slide changes, showing photographs of the Undersiders. Bug girl and Tattletale are there, caught on CCTV in what looks like a bank robbery. “Tattletale’s Undersiders have the advantage of information. We still don’t know her powers, but we can speculate that it’s a peculiar sort of clairvoyance. She was able to provide us detailed, verifiable information on Leviathan after fighting him, even though she was only participating for several minutes before being knocked out.”

To my right, Faultline shakes her head dismissively. She still doesn’t think much of Tattletale and, having met the girl twice, I can sort of see her point.

“I believe this is why, in a matter of twenty-four hours, they were able to fight the Nine twice and win both times. On the first occasion, they captured Cherish and Shatterbird, presumably enslaving the pair.”

“So they have Shatterbird’s firepower and Cherish’s ability to track people, now.” Legend’s voice is even clearer than the director’s. He could make some great speeches if he was so inclined, but it’s interesting that he seems to be deferring to Piggot.

“Skitter contacted us for assistance, as some of you will remember, and when we refused, the Undersiders took the fight to the Nine a second time. Burnscar is dead, Bonesaw injured. She’s invited us to attack them in the meantime.”

“Why would we do that now when we turned down her offer to cooperate?” Weld asks, echoing my own thoughts. It’s good that he has the authority to do that; I was kind of worried that ‘Wards team leader’ was a sham position like a student council. “What’s changed between now and then?”

“Communications will be up shortly. We now have the consoles and trained employees ready to man them, and so long as we’re going into this as a unit, we don’t need to worry about other groups stabbing us in the back at any point during the battle while we engage the Nine.”

Was it just my imagination, or did her eyes flicker over to Faultline for a second? Or was it over to me?

“Would they?” Legend asks politely. “I have a hard time assessing their motives and morality.”

“I don’t know. Could they? Yes. And that possibility is too dangerous, especially given what Regent can do. The Undersiders do not pull their punches. The Travelers, oddly enough, are more moderate, but they do have sixteen kills under their belt, due in large part to the sheer power at their disposal.”

“Let’s not forget the incident in New York,” Legend says, while the New York capes nod sagely to each other. “Forty individuals disappeared in one night. Investigation confirmed the Travelers were occupying a nearby location. Chances are good that they were involved.”

Well fuck me. So the Undersiders were hiding secret mind control powers, the Nine can pull plagues out of their arse and now even the Travellers have some dark shit hanging off them. Shit like this is part of the reason I fucking hate Capes.

“They’re complicated, no doubt. But for now, they’re one knot in a very tangled weave. The Nine have power, the Undersiders have information. Coil has resources that may even exceed our own, including a precog of indeterminate power. Last but certainly not least, Hookwolf’s contingent is the size of our own, if we include Faultline’s mercenaries in our strength,” she clarifies, with a small nod to the boss, “and he’s absorbing the whites from the Merchants to his own group. He commands a small army.”

“It’s a considerable series of obstacles stacked against us,” Legend muses, but he seems confident enough.

“And few capes are willing to step in to help defend the city. Credit to Legend and his teammates for joining us, and to Faultline for contracting with us, no matter how mercantile her motivation may have been. Thank you.”

You might be surprised, Director. We’ve got hidden depths too, only instead of ominous powers or mysterious deaths it’s a tiny shred of genuine human decency. Not much, mind. It doesn’t do to overindulge in that sort of thing.

We follow Faultline as she nods to the Director, while the New York capes do the same on the other side of the room.

“There’s more. Armsmaster’s confinement was technically off the record, to protect the PRT in this time of crisis. He escaped, and thus far, Dragon has not been able to track him. Without official record or reason to arrest him, our measures are limited.”

Oh great, we lost Armsmaster while I wasn’t paying attention. How the fuck did he manage that?

“It’s impressive that he got away from Dragon,” one of the Wards pipes up.

“It is. Thus far, he has eluded every measure she had in place. Either he is much more crafty than even Dragon anticipated, keeping in mind that she’s a very smart woman, or Dragon helped him.”

Ooh. The Heroes are offering us front-row seats for their dirty underwear. Shit like this is probably why they had us all sign NDAs.

“Dragon’s record of service has been exemplary,” Legend speaks, with a few reproachful undertones.

“It has. And we’ve put an inordinate amount of trust in her as a consequence. How many of our resources are tied into her work? If she had a mind to oppose us, would we be able to deal with her?”

“We have no reason to think she’s done anything.”

The Director waves Legend off, a very strange action for a regional PRT director to take towards the head of the fucking Protectorate. “Regardless. Very little of this situation remains in our control. Armsmaster is gone, the other major players are members of the various factions, and we remain in the dark about who many of them are.”

The heroes nod, acknowledging what’s just common knowledge.

“I have a solution in mind. The higher-ups have approved it. Clockblocker, you’re going to be using your power defensively if things go south. They aren’t patient enough to wait for it to wear off. You can protect yourself by using your power on a costume you’re wearing, yes?”

A nod from the Cape in the white suit.

“Vista, I’m counting on you to help control the movements of the Nine. Siberian is immune to powers, but not to external influences. The timing will be sensitive.”

The director changes the slide again, and I see Faultline lean forwards in her seat as a cross section of a warhead fills the screen. I can’t help but grin a little at the wonderful implications.

“On my command, a stealth bomber is prepared to drop payloads of incendiary explosives at a designated location. We evacuate civilians from the area or lead the Nine to an area where evacuation is possible or unnecessary, then we drop a payload on site. If they move, we drop another payload. Clockblocker, you protect anyone that’s unable to clear out. Legend will ferry you to where you need to be. Cache can rescue people as the effects wear off.”

I want to giggle, just a little, but I hold it back. This shit is hands down the best fucking part of working for the government, though it seems Flechette doesn’t agree.

“That’s… still not reassuring.”

“You’ll be equipped with fire resistant suits. I ordered them in anticipation over fighting Burnscar, but the plan has been adjusted. You’ll all look identical, except for agreed upon icons, colours and initials on each costume. Ones Jack and the other members of the Nine will not be able to identify, please. There’s a team ready to prepare the costumes at a moment’s notice. It will help mask the identities of those involved, and postpone any reaction from Jack over our having broken the terms of the deal.”

“But we are breaking the deal. Even if Legend’s team doesn’t get involved-” the Director cuts off Miss Militia before she can get going.

“The incendiary deployments will serve three purposes. They’ll forestall any biological attacks Bonesaw attempts, they’ll force Siberian to stay put to protect her allies and they’ll kill Jack or Bonesaw if she isn’t able. Humans aren’t biologically programmed to look up, and whatever else Siberian is, she’s still human at her core.”

“And if Siberian does protect her allies?” Weld asks, a little concerned.

“Flechette will see if her enhanced shots can beat Siberian’s invulnerability. Failing that, Clockblocker contains the woman. His power won’t work on her, but we can cage her in thread or chains that he can then freeze. If we can do the same with Jack and Bonesaw, we can starve them out, or wait until they let go of Siberian. If you’re prepared, Clockblocker? We can support you with relief teams.”

“If it means stopping them, I’m down.”

“Unless she’s able to walk through that,” Weld speaks, again acting as the voice of reason.

“It’s inviolable,” Clockblocker says with cocky confidence, “I’d sooner expect her to fold the universe in half.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s what the doctors say.”

“And Crawler?” Legend asks.

“Legend, Ursa Aurora, Prism, Weld, Assault and Battery will occupy him until we can contain him,” the Director replies, treating Legend’s concerns with more respect than Clockblocker treated Weld’s. “He’s still vulnerable to physics. I’m hoping the white phosphorous explosive will keep him in the area long enough for us to put measures in place. As I said, we can’t afford to do this halfway. If they get cornered, or if they think they’ll lose, we run the risk they’ll lash out.”

The Director pauses, taking a moment to move her eyes around the room, meeting the gaze of every Cape there.

“We carry this out this evening, before any of our opponents catch on to our intentions and complicate matters with their own agendas. That will be all. Prepare. See to your suits in the lab.”

Everyone rises, making their way to the exits at the back of the hall. I catch sight of Weld on the opposite side of the crush of people, an indeterminable look on his face. I nod across the room to him and he returns the gesture, schooling his expression into professional confidence.

One way or another, it’ll all be over soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the dialogue in this chapter was taken from Worm's Interlude 13


	77. Asylum - 11.06

The sky burns with the light of the setting sun, clouds lit up like pillars of flame in a sea of orange fire. My eyes drift right, following colour as it fades and darkens into the deep blue that comes just before night. I look left, but the setting sun is hidden behind the city itself.

I’m standing in front of the PRT building, looking straight up with my arms outstretched while Gregor circles me, coating me in a heat-resistant substance that hardens into a flexible resin, a coating of gel that pools into my still-healing wounds and sets enough to stick, but not enough to restrict my movements. I look down, dropping to all fours, and he coats the top of my head in the substance, being careful not to get any in my eyes.

He’s already coated himself in the same substance, secreting it directly from his pores. Around us, people are getting ready for war: heroes and mercenaries dressed in the same light-grey heat-proof suits, identical except for a few distinguishing marks, and PRT officers in protective suits of their own, with bulky respirators over their face and body armour patterned in grey-flecked urban camouflage. Faultline nods to us as she passes, dressed in the same outfit as all the other Capes, with a gas mask and a one-way grey faceplate. The only way I know it’s her is because of the grey diamond on her shoulder.

The streets around the PRT building are filled with vehicles, armoured vans and requisitioned police patrol cars as well as about a dozen enormous armoured trucks on massive tires. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people are rushing into the backs of these vehicles, dragged out of whatever they were doing at a moment’s notice to stop any moles from sabotaging us. I look up again, at the roof of the PRT building, as a helicopter alights from the landing pad. It turns over the street before disappearing past the rooftops, and I catch a glimpse of forward-facing weapons and armed men in the back. The sound of it is incredible; almost, but not quite, able to drown out the sound of dozens of engines being turned on.

We move in a kind of ordered chaos, squad leaders bringing their men into the backs of their designated vehicles, while outliers and scouts stream ahead of the rest of us. The heroes, almost identical in their suits, suddenly break apart as some take flight, others start to leap from rooftop to rooftop and still more haul themselves into the back of armoured transports.

I move to my own vehicle, getting a grip on the side and hauling myself up and onto the roof, clinging onto a roll bar set just behind the flashing green and white lights. I can’t fit inside, not with people already in there, and this way I can keep an eye on my surroundings. Within seconds, the streets have entirely cleared of people, and the truck lurches forwards, heading out into the streets of the city.

With the setting sun so low in the sky, and the streetlights destroyed by one crisis after another, the space between the towering buildings of downtown starts is a dark canyon of deep shadows and piles of broken glass lit only by the headlights of our convoy and the bright green and white lights, flashing off the sides of the buildings and causing the shattered city to glisten with kaleidoscopic patterns of glistening light as each heap of glass were filled with emerald geodes.

The buildings drop in height, and I catch sight of the helicopter far ahead of us as it fires a burst of bright tracers into the city, the sound of the shots reaching me a few seconds later than the light. As I watch, tightening my hold on the van, the helicopter lists as a figure suddenly appears on its nose, holding onto the cockpit with one hand as he swings his axe with the other. Hack job brings his axe down once, twice, three times and the aircraft starts to spin uncontrollably.

Another flash of light, as the aircraft’s passengers fire through the cockpit, through the corpses of the pilots, and into the chimera of two capes, stitched together by a child’s hand. As the sound of the gunfire reaches me, I see Hack Job disappear, teleporting away before the wounds could stick. The helicopter spins faster before slamming into the side of a building in a twisted wreck of rotor blades and bodies. It settles unsteadily and for a second, I think it’s going to fall, but it remains lodged in an apartment block twelve stories off the ground.

I lower my eyes, eyeing the buildings on either side of the road, peering into the patches of darkness as they’re illuminated by the flashing lights. I think I see people, huddled together in one of the rooms, but I can’t be sure. We pass another intersection and I spot flashing red and blue lights as conscripted police officers set up the outer perimeter. Nobody’s getting in. Not the press. Not the public. Nobody.

This whole thing breaks every Cape convention I’ve ever seen. There’s not a single catchy costume or attempt at making things seem ‘approachable’ or ‘safe’. The Capes are wearing uniforms, not _costumes_ like they seem to have deluded themselves into thinking, the streets are flooded with humans, armed to the teeth and ready to shoot to kill. There’s no holding back, no attempt at playing _nice_ or being _approachable_ or letting things slide because of some unspoken rules.

The Capes aren’t the centrepiece here. They’re not the stalwart heroes posing at the front of the poster, all truth and justice and the American way. They’re soldiers, cogs in the machine, bricks in a wall that just has to hold long enough for death to arrive on black wings. It’s a distinctly human solution to a parahuman problem, and it’s no less than those monsters deserve.

The Nine came to this city with rules, with expectations about how things were going to go. They accepted the Undersiders deal, agreed to limit themselves, take _turns,_ because that’s how the game is _played_. But that’s not how the real world works. The Undersiders and the Travellers knew it, at least a little. It’s why they killed Burnscar, took Shatterbird and Cherish. It’s why they took one of Weld’s Wards, a fucking _kid,_ took her very _body_ away from her and turned her against him.

But even then, they’re still Capes. They’ve still grown up with that culture, with those expectations and rules. This plan, it reeks of a human touch. This isn’t how Legend would do it, it isn’t how Miss Militia or Weld would do it. It’s not even how Faultline would do it, if she were in their position. This is the work of someone at the head of a militarised but all-to-human police force, someone who understands Capes but isn’t one of them.

I can hear the sound of gunfire in the distance, can see PRT officers without the hazard suits leading a long column of civilians through the streets, hurrying whole families towards the safety of the perimeter. Beneath me, bolted to the sides of the truck, speakers start to broadcast a repeating warning: that a Protectorate operation is happening in the area, that civilian safety cannot be guaranteed, that anyone interfering with PRT officers or Protectorate personnel will be met with force.

The convoy rolls to a stop, the doors come down, and people sprint out in their squads or teams. The PRT soldiers sprint up and down the street, setting up the inner perimeter around the danger zone itself, while the Capes move deeper into the city, closer to the fighting. I see a civilian camera crew having an argument with three of the soldiers, trying to film everything while the PRT orders them to evacuate like everyone else. Things escalate as I clamber off the van and, by the time I look up, the cameramen are face down on the ground, the camera itself smashed to pieces.

People pile out of my truck as the vultures are hauled away, a full squad of PRT troopers and a cape, an open circle in green on her shoulders. I put a reassuring hand on Labyrinth’s shoulder, giving her a gentle squeeze while she looks up at me and nods, the gesture weaker than it should have been. She’s barely here right now, but, as callous as it is, that’s what we need. Better that she doesn’t remember this anyway; it’s not going to be pleasant.

Shamrock gets out of the front of the truck, an upside-down grey triangle marking her out from the crowd. She’s traded in her shotgun for one of the assault rifles we brought back from the Palanquin, and she’s embellished her uniform by adding PRT body armour. Her luck is good, but there’s no reason not to help it out. The more armoured surfaces she has, the more range her power has to work with.

We move down the street, Shamrock leading the PRT soldiers as they spread out in front of us while I stick close to Labyrinth. We’re all here to protect her, to keep her safe from whatever the fuck comes our way. The streets here are dark, with only the occasional gap to let in the setting sun and no flashing lights to show the way. Something roars ahead of us, a horrible sound that has my tendrils twitching and sets out teeth on edge. We can hear the sounds of battle: screams and shouts and the sound of powers blasting away at the city, but no gunfire. These people aren’t the type to be intimidated by something as small as a bullet.

We’re running through ankle-deep water, past old shops and low-rise housing. Overhead, insects start to pour in, black silhouettes against the orange sky, forming three arrows and three words: Jack, Bonesaw and _Crawler._ The arrows are all different lengths, presumably indicating distance, and we start to move towards where she _says_ Crawler is while the PRT squad leader gets on his radio to confirm things. Overhead, far higher than I have any chance of seeing, a reconnaissance drone is slowly circling the battlefield. Within seconds, it confirms the location of Crawler.

Less than a block away from us, I can see a patch of light, a glow of mist peeking out from over the rooftops. The PRT kicks down the door of a building in front of us, and we start to push through a row of old shops. Once we’re inside, we slow to a walk and I give Labyrinth’s shoulder a comforting squeeze as she starts to work her power. The backrooms of whatever high-street shop this once was start to shift and change, the ceilings rising and arching into a blend of gothic architecture with wipe-clean medical tiles.

The Asylum; the dark centre at the heart of her mind. Ever since Burnscar attacked us, this is all that she’s been able to make. It’s a hazardous place, with wrought iron decoration that’s become a rusted and jagged lattice of blades. I have to remind her not to hurt the soldiers, who take the changed environment in their stride, moving forwards with military precision. But for all the danger she brings, Labyrinth makes everything so much easier. Every wall, doorway and other obstacle in our way gets pushed aside as she brings through a long corridor with a floor of yellowing tiles that takes us right to the end of the row of buildings, right to the battle itself.

We emerge in the front of a long-since looted shop. By the look of the posters on the wall, it used to sell electronics. The place has been ransacked, but I’m only able to catch a glimpse of the scattered shelving before it merges with the floor, the room twisting and turning into an operating theatre already stained with dried blood. I move up to the broken windows, now covered by a lattice of iron bars, with Shamrock and the PRT sergeant as we look out onto the street. They haven’t raised their weapons. There’s no point. Not against that.

Crawler is there, monstrous and imposing in his perfect chaos, an amalgam of flesh, muscle, chitin and bone that’s as big as a van, and roaring with bestial rage as acid pools from his mouth. The Undersiders and Travellers are arrayed against him, looking all too human in the face of his bulk. One of them, one of the Travellers, steps forwards and hurls an iron bar at Crawler, the projectile accelerating faster than I can see it and sending the monster sliding back in an instant.

Glass starts to pour out of the surrounding buildings, and I see a silhouette moving overhead. Shatterbird is wearing a flowing dress formed from myriad shards of multicoloured glass, with a beaked glass mask resembling a bird’s skull. She drifts aimlessly, while the glass around her coalesces into a single swarm and drives into Crawler in a hurricane of gleaming light, lit like an inferno by the light of an artificial sun. Her eyes are dead, lifeless, and I know that the Undersiders’ pet mind controller has her in his grasp.

A winged griffon grips a car in two talons, slamming it into Crawler, knocking him back a little, even as the cat itself warps and crumples around his body. While Crawler is temporarily blinded by that, Genesis slams into his side, pushing him even further back. It doesn’t work, and she pumps her wings to fly out of the way of a swiping claw. All that force, and they can’t even make a dent on him.

Two capes step forwards, Grue from the Undersiders and Sundancer of the Travellers, having traded the red dress she wore to the Palanquin for a suit of lightweight black armour. Darkness spills from Grue, engulfing Crawler, while Sundancer, controlling a burning ball of fire that hurts to look at, starts to melt and burn her way through the building behind him.

It’s a modern thing, all concrete and metal and broken glass, and Sundancer’s orb moves through it like it isn’t there, as steel girders melt into liquid and concrete is burnt away by the orb, or cracked by the sheer heat it’s giving out. The building slouches on its foundations before finally collapsing into the pool of darkness, which gives way to reveal a mountain of rubble burying the monster beneath it.

The Travellers and their allies make their escape, running out of sight of our little shopfront, but I’m not so naive as to believe that’s actually Crawler out for the count. Instead, I just watch as the concrete road shifts into cobblestone, and Labyrinth’s power creeps up the rubble, twisting steel into iron, and concrete into wrought masonry. The pile heaves, support buttresses buckling under the strain before finally giving way as Crawler hauls himself out of the pit and under the open sky.

Immediately, the ground beneath his feet turns into a depression, and yet more stonework forms out of the pile, sarcophagi and stone statues staring at him, each cracked figure screaming in agony with arms outstretched. Walls rise out of the side of the pit, great beams of stained and weary oak stretching out to form the buttresses of a leaden roof under moss-coated tiles. I catch a glimpse of a tiled floor before it’s blocked by stained glass windows outlined in wrought iron, pleading figures with outstretched arms illuminated by the harsh glow of electric lighting. A chapel, to an uncaring god.

The structure trembles on its foundations, shaking unsteadily as more and more buttresses grow out of the spoil heap to add strength to the foundations. It’s not enough, and I can see Labyrinth straining against the monster she’s contained; not on her body, concealed behind her anonymous uniform, but through the world she’s made, through the movements of the figures in the window as their cries grow desperate, through the way the buttresses are joined by statues of weeping mourners, physically holding down the building.

Besides me, Shamrock moves, rolling over from where she had been lying prone and pointing her gun straight at Labyrinth. I’m moving almost as soon as she is; I know what this means. Shamrock fires, catching the stitched-together man as he appears right behind Elle. The bullets hit his shoulder, knocking the man back with the impact of the shots and catching his arm mid-swing, ready to cut through Labyrinth with an immense axe. A second later I’m there, driving a tendril right through the wounded shoulder and into his heart, only for the body to explode into bloody ash.

In the half second it took for me to cross the room, Labyrinth’s power has collapsed completely. The operating room has reverted back to the decrepit electronic shop, and Labyrinth’s range has been reset, tiles spreading out again from where she’s standing. Behind us, I hear mocking laughter and a titanic roar, as Crawler screams challenges into the night, bounding off after some distant target only he can see.

All around me, the sound of gunfire lights up as I grab Labyrinth’s arm, pulling her back through the building. I can hear screaming as the PRT buy me time to get Labyrinth out of here. It’s the reason we’re all here; capes like Labyrinth are far to vulnerable to Hack Job, yet they’re far too useful to leave behind. My job is to protect Labyrinth. That’s it.

We’re pushing back through the building, Shamrock following closely behind us with her weapon raised and ready to fire. There’s the sound of gunfire from ahead, and a body falls down into our corridor, the head and shoulders poking out from a side room. As we pass it, I see that the body ends at the waist in a slurry of blood and guts. The gunfire intensifies briefly, but every time I hear it there’s one less gun sounding out.

Hack job appears in front of me, even as another volley from Shamrock hits him, but he ignores the two of us, disappearing into another bloody cloud right as I drive my crest through his torso. Behind us I hear Shamrock fighting for her life, hear her shouting at me to run, that she’ll be fine. I can’t stop, not with Elle still here. This is why we’re here; this is what we came here to do.

I kick out the door to a stairwell, clambering up it as fast as I can, picking Labyrinth up and carrying her in my arms when she can’t move fast enough. Behind us, there’s nothing but silence. My radio buzzes as I shoulder check the door at the top of the stairwell and emerge onto the flat roof, gripping Elle with my tendrils as I sprint along on all fours, moving towards the eight-story building at the end of the block. Thirty seconds.

A figure appears to my right, an axe catching me on my thigh even as I swipe a tendril across its throat. I push past it, clambering up the side of the building as I cut off the flow of blood to the wounded area, diverting it through secondary and tertiary arteries in my thigh as the wound seals and starts to congeal. It slows my movement a little, but not by much. I haul myself up onto the rooftop to find Hack Job waiting for me, only to watch as he turns and stares off into the distance.

There’s a flat black line on the horizon, a simple shape approaching at speed. It’s low in the sky, lower than the height of the tallest skyscrapers in the city, and it seems to be moving at an almost leisurely pace, or I’m just running high on adrenaline. As it gets closer, close enough that I can almost make out the cockpit, small shapes fall from beneath it, dozens of bombs falling like snow. Hack Job disappears, like I thought he would, and the aircraft passes me by, looking like a single wing in midnight black.

I follow its flight, noting with an almost detached feeling as Hack Job appears on the cockpit, the aircraft simply turning on its axis until Hack job loses his grip, falling to the ground before disappearing as he teleports again.

Then the bombs hit, about a kilometre off from my building, and I suddenly lose sight of everything except for the blazing inferno that illuminates half the city. Fire pours through the streets like a tsunami, a writhing mass that stretches up four stories high, covering the roofs of some of the buildings. Other bombs hit taller buildings side on, turning them instantly into pillars of flame. The sound is deafening, overwhelming, and it hits me just before the fire spills around the base of my building, mercifully not reaching up to my level.

The heat wave does. I can feel myself cooking underneath the fireproof gel. Labyrinth feels it too, and soon the rooftop starts to resemble a meat locker, with rusted industrial refrigerators straining against the heat, while troughs filled with ice and unnerving organs are refilled almost as quickly as they melt. It’s not much, but it’s enough to turn the heat from unbearable to near-uncomfortable.

The firestorm passes surprisingly quickly but it leaves behind a city in flames. Everything that can burn is burning and everything that can’t is scorched black and cracked by the sheer force of the heat. There are patches of flames on the roads, closer to the epicentre of the blast, where patches of incendiary material still remain. I look out, trying not to let the light blind me, and spot a distant figure teleporting from rooftop to rooftop, getting closer and closer to us.

I have time, but not much of it, so I use my tendrils to clamber down the side of the building, Labyrinth held in my arms. Half the buildings on this street are old, all brickwork and wooden floors, so we’re surrounded on both sides by walls of flame. I set Labyrinth down on a patch of concrete untouched by the fire, and tell her to seal herself away.

As she shuts herself in with chains and iron and stone, creating a structure that’s half-mausoleum half-solitary confinement, I step out into the middle of the street and wait. I reach into myself and fire off a sequential sets of neurons, triggering glands to produce adrenaline to fight against my fatigue, coagulants to fix up my cuts and scrapes, and illegal drugs to accelerate my mind and slow my perception of time.

All the while, Hack Job is getting closer, teleporting from rooftop to rooftop. Now that he’s distant, now that I can see him moving slowly through flames that dance gracefully, sending embers like fireflies up into the darkening sky, I can get a clearer sense of his power. He’s not just teleporting; there are two of him, sometimes even three, each clone disappearing into ash a few instances after a new one appears. He can be in two places at once, but not for long.

He’s moving at the speed of sight, each clone bursting apart in a bloody chain of explosions stretching along the rooftops, dropping occasionally into the street to avoid buildings that have been consumed by towering flames. He’ll be on me in a second, but a second is a long time right now. I split my tail into tendrils, spreading them out and bringing them in front of my body.

Once he arrives at his last stop before hitting me, I move, reversing my tendrils and bringing them back to drive into him as he appears behind me. I’m already turning, not to fight the clone, who disappears into ash, but to drop low to the ground as a hatchet swings past my neck. I slam myself into Hack Job in a rugby tackle, letting go of him the moment I feel solid flesh and rippling muscle collapse into wet ash.

The monster attacks again, taking advantage of my blind spot to drive an axe into my back, before disintegrating just as a tendril spears through his head. He appears again, a little way back from me, as he seems to think his way through something. I look closer at him, taking in the absence of any of the debilitating wounds I dealt him, and spot something strange; a pattern of gunshot wounds on his shoulder, from where Shamrock hit him.

Before I can think my way through this puzzle, he’s attacking again, a clone swinging an axe down at my face in an obvious distraction while another tries to sever my arm. This time I don’t strike, instead wrapping a tendril around Hack Job’s arm and trying to hold him tight, seeing if he can’t teleport with someone holding him. When he appears again a few metres in front of me I let go of my grip, driving all four of my tendrils into the ground and leaping forwards with my talons outstretched, driving the wicked blades down his chest and through his groin before he teleports away again.

When I next see him, there’s a gory line of scars stretching from his clavicle to his sternum. Only some of the strike hit, but why? He moves again and I leap back out of the way of two axes, only for a third to sink deep into one of my tendrils, severing cartilage, muscle and parts of the armoured exoskeleton. Redundancy can only take you so far and the tendril falls still, without arteries to carry blood to it or nerves to send signals. It’s hanging on by scraps of exoskeleton and flesh.

Even with my perceptions slowed by the stimulants, I’m having a hard time keeping up with Hack Job. By the time I recognise his presence, it’s already too late to do anything about him. The only time I’ve been able to do any meaningful damage is when I hit him almost immediately after he teleports in, just like Shamrock did. That’s it! That’s the answer! He’s cloning himself each time he teleports, and the clone left behind is the one that crumbles into ash. But hit him _before_ he teleports, and the injury sticks.

That doesn’t help me much, not when he can be anywhere at once, and he soon has me on the defensive, focusing on minimising the damage as he lodges his axe into my torso, an axe that dissipates into ash half a second later. So, he can take his gear with him…

I need to stop acting and start fucking thinking. His moves are good, but that’s because he can be anywhere in an instant. His form is good, but there’s something rote about it. This doesn’t _feel_ like someone fighting for his life, it doesn’t even feel like a Baiter piloting a Beastie by remote. There’s not a single scrap of emotion in his movements, just muscle memory. It feels… it feels like a fucking servitor!

This bastard was stitched together, taking two half-dead capes to make something that’s almost alive, but it doesn’t have the mind of either of them. It feels like a fucking robot, acting off simple commands: kill aircraft, kill Shakers, kill Capes. There’s no anger to it, no fucking edge, none of the unpredictability that comes from a human mind acting as much on emotion as on reason.

Each move is the most optimal one to make, based on the muscle memory of Hatchet Face and Oni Lee struggling to work in concert; nothing more than a biological computer going through the motions. I move, leaving a deliberate vulnerability in my stance, and Hack Job takes the bait in an instant. He can be anywhere he wants, so I need him to want to be where I need him.

I leave another opening, inviting him to drive his axe into my thigh, moving before he’s even thought about teleporting. I know he’ll take the bait; I just need to get there before he teleports away. Sure enough, he appears right when I expected, right in the path of my rushing hand as it closes around the shaft of his weapon, ripping it out of his hand. He teleports again, into a space I deliberately left open, but the weapon remains with me and I’m already swinging.

The axe hits him near the back of his misshapen skull and carve down through his neck and his hunched back, carving away the twitching remains of Oni Lee in a flurry of gore. He teleports, instinctively reacting to the attack, ripping away the rest of Oni Lee’s carcass. I see him for a few moments, a misshapen heap of gore with the still-twitching remains of a human face, appearing once, twice, dozens of times as he teleports, losing flecks of blood and chunks of gore each time until the grisly remains can no longer take the strain, and Oni Lee dies a long-delayed death.

Cut loose from half of his thought power, Hack Job sways unsteadily on his feet as I stride up to him, driving two tendrils into his knees to bring him to the ground, then another into his right arm to drag him down further, until he’s prostrated on all fours. He moves his left arm, barely aware enough to drip it firmly around the tendril restraining his right, but I simply grip his shoulder and his upper arm in my hands and pull until I hear the crack of the limb dislocating from its socket.

I move my arms up, one hand gripping his jaw while the other curls around the back of his head, a clawed thumb finding purchase in his eye socket. I tighten my grip, squeezing and twisting my way through flesh, muscle and bone until, with the cracking of his spinal column and the wet tear of flesh, his head comes off in my hand. I hold it up for a second, like I’m back in the arena surrounded by a cheering crowd, and toss it aside into a patch of flame.

Another voice comes through the radio, another waring of a bombing run, but this one is different. Its advice isn’t to hunker down, to seek shelter or find Clockblocker and Cache. The order is to withdraw, to flee as fast as you can and get to a safe distance. Something is different this time, and I don’t hesitate to hammer on the door of Labyrinth’s mausoleum, layers of stone and iron curling back like petals on a flower to reveal the girl sitting on a simple wooden chair.

I help her up onto my back, two tendrils holding her in place while I drop to all fours and start to sprint, stopping only to warp up Hack Job’s hatchet in a tendril. My last tendril dangles uselessly over the side of my body, the blade of sharpened bone at its tip skittering loudly along the concrete road as I sprint to safety, towards the white glow of floodlights and the green and white sirens.

We round a corner, and I’m suddenly struck by dozens of blinding lights pointed directly down the street, set on and in front of a barricade of armoured vehicles defended by machine guns on the roof of the trucks and a dozen men armed with all manner of rifles and rocket launchers. They raise their rifles as we approach, but within seconds one of them has called the all clear, and men move aside to give us a clear path back behind the lines, back to the safety of the medical camp.

Another cape passes us, a man travelling in leaps and bounds with a woman slung over her shoulder. He has a red line stretching down his back and the woman has an indeterminable grey shape on her shoulder, indeterminable because her arm hangs in bloody and tattered shreds, ending well above her elbow.

Something, an idle thought, has me stop and turn to look back at the battlefield, at the buildings lit by dozens of fires, at the silhouette moving through the sky, growing larger as it approaches the facility, a black line against an orange sky. It passes behind a tower of ash and I lose sight of it for an instant, before it pushes aside the grey pillar, scattering it with the force of its engines. Behind the plane, shapes fall to earth. There are less of them than in the last run, and they seem to fall slower somehow, less regular in their descent.

The first bomb hits halfway up a skyscraper, and, for an instant, I think it’s flash frozen a chunk of the building before it creaks and groans, shattering into glass as the weight of the floors above presses down on it. Sickly yellow-green smoke rises up in a devastating tornado of force, catching the falling building and tearing it onto shreds, even as other effects seem to slow and stop the crash itself, freezing falling concrete and steel in mid-air.

Other buildings are annihilated, sheered clean away like they had never been there, leaving perfectly-circular holes before the rest of the superstructure collapses in on itself. The earth itself seems to shake, vortices of force chewing up structures, ripping sending chunks of road flying into the air or slamming them into the ground with a force that creates shockwaves of its own. In half a second, three city blocks have been reduced into a twisted hellscape which glows with a light that hurts to look at. All this before the midnight-black silhouette of the bomber has even passed overhead.

As I pull myself into a waiting van, looking out over the devastated city, I can’t help but feel a tremendous sense of relief. This battle was never going to hinge on me. These people, the Slaughterhouse Nine, they’re on a whole other scale, one I can’t even hope to meet. I was always going to be just one small part of this, but at least I know that I had some impact. Hack Job is dead, and I kept Labyrinth safe while she delayed Crawler.

That’s all this was, in the end. A delaying action. Keep the Nine occupied long enough, let them think that the firebombs were all we had, let _me_ think the firebombs were all we had, then drop the heavy stuff on them.

I crawl into the back of the truck, sitting with my legs and tendrils splayed out in front of me, my back against the cool metal wall as a PRT officer closes the door, and the truck starts to move through the city streets. I hold Labyrinth in my lap, gently brushing her neck as the drug releases its hold on me, and the shakes start up.

We’ve done our part.


	78. Interlude 11: Faultline

Sometimes I feel so… _useless._

I fire again, putting three shots into a woman in the dead centre of the crowd. She’s wearing practical jeans but her coat looks expensive, a prized treasure she’s probably carried since the sirens first announced Leviathan’s arrival. The first two bullets pierce her lungs, causing her to stagger a little, but she doesn’t drop until the third bullet passes through her skull, through the cavity where her brain has been scooped out and replaced by one of Bonesaw’s spiders.

All around me the others are dealing with the crowd in their own ways. The Protectorate Capes are either unconsciously holding back thanks to the muscle-memory of years of restraint – and the unsettling appearance of Bonesaw’s puppets – or going about their business with methodical detachment, their years of service having long since weaned out any capacity for hesitation or doubt. To my side, Spitfire is far less certain. She’s spewing flames across the parking lot to devastating effect, melting and burning her way through the puppeted civilians, but her actions are hesitant, and I can tell the work itself is affecting her mentally.

Compared to them, compared to all the powers they can bring to bear, I am nothing. Less than a PRT officer, because at least they carry rifles and grenades. I don’t have any other _choice_ than to fight in melee, which means I can’t carry a rifle for fear that it’ll slow my movements, that it’ll cost me that vital half-second that can mean the difference between life and death. Everything I do, everything I carry, has to be as efficient as possible. Even then, all of that preparation is next to useless against the wrong sort of enemy.

Certainly, if someone is kind enough to show up in power armour then it’s a simple enough answer, but there are so few people like that in the world and so many I can’t touch. Blasters who could cut me down at three hundred yards, Brutes who could break my spine with a single punch, Masters who could take my mind from me, Shakers who could take the very ground out from beneath my feet, even a kid high on meth with a stolen thirty-eight special can be a threat to me under the right circumstances.

Compared to them my power is less than nothing but, whatever else it may be, at least it forces me to _think._

I have to struggle, to strategize, for every advantage I can find. I need to choose the battlefield, fighting in built up areas and enclosed spaces as often as possible, my power giving me the mobility such spaces deny my enemies. I have to get up close and personal, to knock the ground out from under their feet, so I wear a clip-on ponytail filled with hidden spines, a tempting target for an enemy to grab, and an opportunity to strike at them while they’re trying to pull the spines out of their bleeding hands. Striking with a baton, of course, or even a knife or a gun, if the situation calls for it. Anything to leverage my own strength just that little bit further.

Absolutely none of that preparation is useful here, of course. There’s no point in carrying a telescopic baton, or keeping a knife strapped to my boot, or even in wearing body armour. Instead I’ve slimmed down to the absolute bare minimum: the PRT-made fireproof costume, my pistol and twelve magazines. Anything more risks slowing me down, risks adding that extra second of drag or constricting my movements just enough that I end up dead.

“Spirit of Indiana confirms thirty seconds until incendiary strike.”

The voice of the PRT dispatcher, her voice only a little distorted over the radio, is detached, professional to the extreme. She doesn’t see the mess down here; all she has to rely on is the radar map displayed in the operations room of the PRT building and the overhead view of the reconnaissance drone slowly circling overhead. That degree of distance is needed from a commander, or from someone like her whose job is to keep the commander informed. If you let yourself give in to emotion then your subordinates will do so as well. That can only lead to anarchy, and the collapse of whatever strategy you intended.

Instead of panicking, the various Capes start to calmly close ranks, keeping up enough pressure on Bonesaw’s creatures to hold them at bay while slowly edging closer and closer to Cache, who has started to work his power. I risk a glance, more out of curiosity than anything else, and see dark lines spreading out through the parking lot, rising and forming strange geometric angles before being filled by black panes of solid force. I turn back just long enough to send another three rounds into one of Bonesaw’s horrors, a child this time, and step through the gate.

Cache’s pocket dimension is a featureless black void, with no light, no sound, not even a sense of touch. Idly, I’m aware of my hands brushing against my hips, holding tightly onto my pistol like it’s a lifeline, but I can’t actually feel it. I bring my hand up to my face, the one without a gun in it, but I have absolutely no idea it’s there. I can’t see it, can’t hear it when I snap my fingers, can’t even feel it, even though I know I’m pressing it against my mask. Even _time_ seems more of an abstract than a constant in here, seconds stretching into hours that feel like minutes, until I’m more lost and disorientated than I have ever been.

And then all those senses return and I’m suddenly aware of motion as light starts to spill in from a space in front of me, a pane of colour floating in the void. There’s a sudden lurch as I’m pulled forwards, ripped from the void’s embrace and thrust out into a world gone mad.

The decrepit parking lot is almost unrecognisable amidst the flames and wreckage of a pitched battle. The bombing run was centred almost exactly on here and there are still great swathes of liquid flame left over from the bombs. Not a single building has escaped unscathed, flames and smoke reaching high up into the sky, a cauldron of fire blocking the rest of the city from sight. I glance behind me, seeing more Capes spilling out of the shadowy geometry, seeing Cache on his knees in agony, his costume bubbling and melting as acid runs down his body, melting his faceplate and exposing eyes filled with grim determination as he focuses all his effort on bringing more heroes through.

The sight of it is enough to snap my attention back to what matters, back to the black beast lumbering down the street, all claws and teeth and eyes. A woman floats above me – a _child_ – as Glory Girl moves to put herself between us and Crawler, anonymous in her fireproof suit save for the bright yellow star on each shoulder. Crawler closes in on her, _bating_ her, and Glory Girl lunges in for a strike, going for a punch before twisting it into a kick. Crawler, faster than a monster his size has any right to be, dodges away from her and unhinges his jaw, spewing foul-smelling spittle and bile all over the heroine.

Glory Girl’s fireproof suit melts away in seconds but the acid doesn’t go further, flowing down an invisible barrier a fraction of an inch above her skin and the skin-tight underwear she wore beneath her costume. Of course, Glory Girl can afford to take risks like that. She’s constantly covered by a nearly-impervious force field, so she doesn’t have to think about how to defend herself, how to stop herself from getting into situations like this. She can just lean back and rely on her-

Crawler lunges, driving his head into the teenage heroine, and Glory Girl _screams_ as she’s driven back, skin blistering and peeling as the acid falls through her shield like it isn’t even there. The force of Crawler’s strike slams her into the ground, but she doesn’t take flight again. She just screams, thrashing around in agony, as the acid turns her skin red, then black, before dissolving it entirely and starting to eat its way through her muscles.

“Wards!” Weld’s voice cuts clearly through the crackling flames, over the sound of Glory Girl’s screaming. “Crawler and Mannequin, like we discussed! Close ranks around Victoria!”

Glory Girl’s shield is a constant. It’s always on. Except…

Except I always believe the evidence of my own eyes. Except certain Capes live their lives by obfuscating their powers, by always keeping one extra trick up their sleeve. Even the appearance of having something in reserve can build up a reputation, and that reputation can see enemies stand down rather than fight. Glory Girl is _famous_ for her invincibility, one of the most famous capes in the city, but it seems she should be famous for her cunning. She’s carefully cultivated that persona of invincibility, hiding her weakness behind the façade of strength. Admirable.

As Vista twists space, expanding the distance between the Wards and Crawler, and Flechette starts firing arrows into the monster, Newter and Gregor move up to Glory Girl, Gregor hosing her down with a fluid that removes the acid without irritating her wounds while Newter pulls the gloves off his fireproof suit and sends the Ward into unconsciousness.

I turn from the scene; there’s nothing I can do for her and Weld seems like he has everything in hand. That kid’s a good leader – dangerously good, perhaps – and I don’t know if he used Glory Girl’s real name out of dismay or because he knew it would motivate the Wards better. Either way, the result is the same.

Ahead of me, Miss Militia runs through the flames, a rifle in her hand shifting in a green blur into one with a larger magazine, a higher calibre. She’s signalling to the Protectorate with terse hand signals, looking every part the commander as Capes leap to her command, moving around to circle Crawler as the Wards keep the monster contained and heavy-hitters move into position. The rest of the Protectorate, myself included, start to sprint towards a spindly white figure that dances through the flames without a care.

Mannequin’s name is well deserved. Whatever he looked like before has long since been cut away, stripped down to the bare essentials as he sealed himself within a mechanical construct, a spindly white figure nine feet tall, with ball joints holding mechanical limbs to his torso. His face is utterly featureless, a white mask with faint indents that only serve to highlight the absence of eyes, a mouth, a nose or any recognisable piece of humanity beyond the mere form.

It’s a fitting look for him, as the man beneath the shell has also been stripped of all the drive of humanity. They used to call him Sphere. They used to call him the man who’ll save the world. On the sea floor of the Gulf of Mexico, there are still the skeletal remains of the great underwater domes he built to grow enough food to feed both continents of America, their titanic structures long since reclaimed by the fish and coral they displaced.

His vision stretched further than that, speaking eagerly to packed press conferences about re-establishing NASA, about building self-sufficient colonies on the moon and even reaching further, out into the solar system. He moved his base to Cape Canaveral, establishing himself among the ruins of the old American space program, only to have all his visions go up in smoke when the Simurgh descended from the heavens, destroying his compound and killing Sphere’s family.

What crawled out of the ruins was a broken man, his vision and drive twisted into depression and hate. He hates the world, so he seals himself away from it. He hates how far he came, only to fail, so he targets those who seem most likely to make a difference in the world. His ego won’t allow anyone to surpass him, but he’s lost whatever willpower it was that made him so great.

I hate people like him, more than anyone else. People who have all that power, but refuse to use it. Lung, the monster that faced down Leviathan alone and survived, content to rule a petty kingdom of gangbangers and whores. Tattletale, content to sit back and allow her power to take the lead, playing second fiddle to a musclebound brute when she could be running an empire. The world is full of Parahumans whose powers make mine look trivial, miniscule, and yet they’re content to sit on their haunches and let opportunity pass them by.

Wastes of Power, every one of them.

Miss Militia turns, her rifle shifting into a rocket launcher in another twist of green, as she fires at Crawler. I ignore that fight in favour of sprinting towards Mannequin as he doges and moves unnaturally quickly, facing down two of the Protectorate as they duck and weave around him. Mannequin is the only one I can hurt, but as I get closer, I realise that’s not going to be as easy as it seems.

He’s too fast, his limbs too mobile, and he practically runs rings around Prism and Battery as they dart in and out of his reach. Prism has split herself into three duplicates, using them to distract Mannequin long enough for Battery to dart in with a burst of speed, fast enough to hit Mannequin and with enough force to knock him back, but not enough to do any significant damage as the Tinker bends with the impact instead of breaking. Mannequin responds in an instant, shooting out his hands on lengths of chain, using them as grappling ropes as he gets in close enough to cut down two of Prism’s duplicates, only barely missing skewering the heroine herself as Battery knocks aside the projectile.

In comparison to her, I’m far too slow to get close.

I hear boots hit the tarmac beside me as Shamrock appears in the corner of my eye, leaning over the roof of the burnt-out car I’m sheltering behind as she keeps her rifle trained on Mannequin. Her costume is a little singed, but apart from that she seems unharmed.

“We were unable to contain Crawler, ma’am.” Her tone is professional in spite of everything, falling back on whatever training Cauldron forced through her head.

“Labyrinth?”

“Don’t know.” The faintest hint of concern creeps into her voice, smothered beneath years of programming. “We got hit by Hack Job. Last I saw, Khanivore was leading her away.”

Fuck. Maybe Hack Job died in the firestorm, but I wouldn’t count on it. Still, there’s nothing I can do about it from here. If anyone can keep Labyrinth safe from a power-nullifying teleporter, it’s Khanivore. That woman makes hand-to-hand combat look like a particularly murderous form of dance.

I just have to focus on the here and now, not let myself get distracted by circumstances outside my control. I can’t hurt Crawler, and Hack Job is too far away for me to do anything, but Mannequin… Mannequin I can kill, if I’m clever about it.

“Shamrock.” I don’t look at her, keeping my eyes fixed on the porcelain man as he dances around the two Protectorate capes. “Three round burst, shoot to kill.”

Shamrock obliges, without hesitation or doubt, all three shots impacting on a single spot on the torso of the dancing figure, who staggers back from the impact. The bullets haven’t broken through the armour, but I wasn’t expecting them to. All they needed to do was leave a mark.

Shamrock’s power is strange, to say the least. It seems to work of her intent, more than anything else. If she wants something to happen, her power will twist space and probability to make sure it happens, mimicking the nebulous concept of ‘good luck.’ But sometimes it can’t deliver her exactly what she wants, or her requests are too vague. That’s the problem with powers that are driven by the subconscious.

Shamrock would probably have preferred to have found Khanivore and Labyrinth, but all she _wanted_ was to ‘return to the fight.’ When her power can’t give her exactly what she wants, it compensates, manipulating space to give Shamrock the best possible possibility of success. In this case, it guided her arms to adjust her aim, guided the flight of the bullet through the air, maybe even guided Mannequin’s movements, all to hit the spot where she had the best chance of killing Mannequin.

She was never going to kill him, the odds were stacked against her, but all I needed from her was to know where he was most vulnerable. It’s not worth the risk if I’m not sure of the kill.

I stand up from my crouch, unbuckling my belt and handing it off to Shamrock. The pistol and magazines would only slow me down. I vault over the hood of the wrecked car, turning back to look at Shamrock as the barrel of her rifle drifts, easily keeping pace with Mannequin’s erratic movements.

“When I get closer, I want you to hinder him as much as you can.”

She nods to me, but I turn away before she can say anything. My heart is pounding in my chest as fear mixes with eagerness in a conflicting flurry of emotions. Mannequin is the most manoeuvrable combatant I’ve ever faced, but on the other hand he’s someone I _can_ face. Someone I can beat. More than that, he was _Sphere_ , one of the most famous Tinkers the world has ever seen.

I sprint forwards, even as Shamorck starts shooting past me, sparks flying off Mannequin’s limbs as bullets scrape away at his joints, lodging themselves into the long chains in inconvenient ways. It doesn’t slow him down, but it does make his moves far more uncoordinated. Battery and Prism have been told a cut-down version of Shamrock’s powers, so they know it’s still safe for them to operate, but that doesn’t override the human instinct to flinch back when gunfire bursts around them. Still, they’re being admirable distractions.

Mannequin’s featureless face seems to regard me as I approach, and there’s a distant part of me that notices something mocking in his stance, as if he knows who I am and doesn’t care. He doesn’t consider me _worth his time._ It pisses me off, but it also gives me my opening when he brings his arm down in a lazy blow. I use my power on the tarmac beneath my feet, fracturing the surface just enough to create a loose layer of gravel that lets me slide beneath the tinker before rolling into a crouch on the other side of his torso, right where Shamrock’s shots impacted.

I strike the Tinker’s shell with an open palm, passing through metal and plastic with no difficulty before closing my hand as I hit flesh, squeezing away at Mannequin’s real body. I pull my hand away, grey matter dripping between my fingers, only to suddenly stumble backwards as Sphere’s body flails in death, his hand coming around in a last desperate strike that would have bisected me, had the arm not been sent off course by gunfire. Instead it cuts cleanly through my outstretched arm below the shoulder, leaving me stumbling back in shock, before a hand grips my shoulder and pulls me back.

The next few moments are a haze, as the pain catches up to me and I scream in agony. I’m dimly aware of my rescuer passing me off to someone else, of a tourniquet twisting painfully around what’s left of my arm, of someone’s shoulder digging into my pelvis as they carry me from the battlefield in leaps and bounds. The radio crackles in my ear again, but I’m too far gone to hear what it was saying. Instead, I slip into unconsciousness.

<|°_°|>

I wake in a cold sweat, panic flooding through my veins as I reach for my pistol, only to realise that my belt is gone, and that the arm I was reaching for it with is no longer there. In a haze, I reach up to the arm with my other hand, feeling the dull pain as I rub the stump, the flap of skin that was used to seal away the wound. Whatever painkillers they had me on have long since left my system, leaving me painfully aware of the total lack of feeling, of the phantom sensation of my lost arm pressing against my mind.

It takes everything I have to stamp my fears down, everything I have to stop myself from shouting out, from smashing apart the hospital room in rage. Instead I turn my mind outwards, away from my broken body, and start to scan my surroundings like I’m looking over a battlefield. The medical supplies along the wall of my room have the PRT logo on them, and the room itself is better maintained than any hospital I’ve ever seen, with a reinforced bed. The hospital in the PRT building, then, reinforced to deal with the physiological eccentricities of Capes.

The scent of antiseptics hangs in the air, which makes me realise I’m no longer masked. No, that’s not quite right. I can feel the faint pressure of a mask covering the top half of my face, probably some standard issue type the Protectorate keeps around for circumstances such as this. I suppose you can’t get an oxygen mask on someone wearing a respirator, but part of me still feels a flash of anger at the intrusion. I’ve worn half masks before, of course, but I’ve grown attached to armoured helmets that cover my whole face, and I feel almost naked without that familiar weight.

There’s a piece of paper on a small table next to the bed. I reach for it – _wrong hand_ – and scan my eyes down a very elegant non-disclosure agreement, signed by the six different staff members who’d seen me unmasked. It’s a small courtesy, especially when my contract with the PRT prohibits them from exploiting any vulnerabilities they learn about while we’re working for them, but it’s a welcome one. Lives are made and unmade on this sort of information.

I can’t stay in this room any longer, so I stumble into the corridor, grateful that the medics only removed the mask and the rest of my right sleeve. I would _not_ want to wander the halls of the PRT building in nothing but a hospital gown. The corridor I’m on has a number of beds separated by simple curtains, but the next one has a few actual operating theatres, as well as some other rooms that are better suited to holding Brutes.

I can hear a familiar accent through the door to one of those rooms, and my curiosity gets the better of me. I peer through the little window and watch as Sonnie chats amiably with the medical staff, not seeming to care that they’ve peeled back the burnt remains of her skin and are reattaching a segment of her tail with massive metal staples. Hack Job’s axe is on a table at the side of the room and Sonnie’s eyes keep darting over to it. I smile, in spite of it all. I should have known that Elle would be safe in her hands. Still, I really need to have a talk with her. This is far from the first time she’s taken grievous injuries during a fight.

I push open the door – _wrong hand –_ ignoring the protests of the surgical staff, and look at my subordinate as her eyes light up with happiness, before turning worried as she spots my arm.

“Shit, boss. What happened to you?”

“Mannequin.”

“You kill him?”

“Of course.”

“Fuckin’ A”

“You kill him?” I nod at Hatchet Face’s axe.

“Yeah, but I’m not sure it counts as ‘killing,’ boss.”

“It does. Sounds more impressive, if nothing else.”

She snorts, using her real lungs rather than the voicebox and doing interesting things to her exposed organs. I step out of the room, half forced out by one of the surgeons who closes the door behind me and clicks the lock. To be honest, I expected more of a reaction. Not about her injuries – I’m quite certain her head could fall off and she wouldn’t much care – but about mine.

Maybe she was putting on a brave face for me or maybe she’s that blasé about everyone’s injuries, not just her own. But I think the most likely explanation is culture shock. It’s hard to forget she comes from a world that’s well in advance of my own, not when it bleeds through into her mannerisms, her taste, even her personality at times. Her world’s mastery of biology probably makes something like a missing limb trivial… On this Earth, it’s a career ender.

I shake my head, disgusted at my own defeatism and weakness. I can put on a brave face for my Crew, surely I can put one on for myself as well? Force myself to keep acting the professional, at least until I’m out of the lion’s den. Speaking of, it’s time I spoke to the Director. Her office isn’t hard to find; I’ve had the layout of the PRT building mapped on my wall since my network got good enough to access it. Her secretary makes me wait, but not for long. It’s as much of a snub as circumstances allow, but one I can defuse by not giving a shit.

The Director is sitting behind her desk, looking across the room at me with a steely glare. She’s obese, but she still holds herself well, still has the eyes of a soldier. It’s an incongruous look, unless you’ve had private investigators building up a psychological profile for her. She was wounded in Ellisburg, fighting against Nilbog, and that injury has relegated her to a string of desk jobs, working for a side of the PRT she never wanted to see.

If I were a cruel woman, I would say that the massive militarised operation she just launched was a way to recapture her field days, but I know better than that. It was a statement of intent, the result of a woman who deeply distrusts Capes and wanted to prove that they are simply one part of the larger PRT machine, faceless soldiers in the war on anarchy.

“Director Piggot.”

“Faultline.” Her greeting is terse as she looks me in the eye. Not many people get the chance to do that, thanks to my helmet, and I can’t help but wonder if the mask they gave me was her idea.

“Given that we’re not dead, I assume the Nine have either been killed or driven out of the city.”

“That’s correct. Every member of the Nine save for Bonesaw, Jack Slash and the Siberian has either been killed or captured.”

Captured by the Undersiders, is the unspoken part to that statement. I don’t envy her dealing with _that_ problem. Just one more reason to leave the city _now._

“As such, the services of you and your _mercenaries_ ” – she speaks the word with a patriot’s disdain – “are no longer required. As per the contract, you have twenty-four hours to recover here, if you want them, and forty-eight hours before the truce between us ends.”

She opens up a draw on her desk, setting a plain folder in front of me.

“As agreed, here is the other _item_ we agreed on.” If her comment on our mercenary nature was disdainful, her words about the folder are downright scathing. I reach forwards – _wrong hand –_ and open the folder, quickly skimming the document to check everything is in order before tucking it under my stump.

What a wonderful world we live in, where a piece of paper can make the difference between a person and an animal. Sonnie might not care about the piece of paper in my hand, signed by the Directors of three different PRT departments and Asylum East, but I do. It’s an assurance of personhood, the recognition, however much of an illusion it may be, that Khanivore is a Case-53, and deserves to be treated as such. It means an end to the threat of dissection, of losing her to research groups or some sort of fucked up zoo.

For Piggot, the Nilbog survivor, it means grinning through her teeth at one of the monsters that haunts her dreams.

“And the other part of our agreement? I assume I should have my people get in touch with yours.”

The Director can’t help the scowl that passes across her face. I don’t think she was ever expecting this clause to come into effect.

“I killed Sphere. The bounty is mine.”

“Mannequin would have been killed anyway in the second bombing run.”

“The bombing run that you didn’t warn me about.” I stare at her pointedly, and more than a little angrily. “Your firebombs were hilariously ineffective, so I took the chance when I saw it. At not inconsiderable cost to myself, I might add.”

This is one of the benefits of anonymity, I suppose. The Director probably has a psychological profile on me, but it’s based on the personality I put out in costume. She, on the other hand, has no mask to hide behind and newspaper articles have been written about her service history. It means that when I remind her that she’s responsible for my injury, no matter how indirectly, it starts to remind her of the Capes that left her to die in Ellisburg.

“Fine,” she admits, grudgingly.

“And the Hatchet Face bounty as well.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she scowls at me. I don’t know if it’s from the suggestion itself, or just the idea of giving money over to what she thinks is a biotinkered creation. “Hatchet Face has been dead ever since Bonesaw modified him.”

“Because a teleporting Hatchet Face is so much less dangerous than he was before? Director, only the bounties on Burnscar and Cherish are smaller than the one on Hatchet Face, and it’s miniscule compared to the Sphere bounty. Not to mention that the lion’s share of it comes from Corporate Cape teams, _not_ the PRT. You lose nothing, but it would be a gesture of good faith should the PRT decide to pursue arrangements like this in future.”

“Weld tells me you’re planning to leave the city,” she says, changing the subject.

I have to suppress a scowl; Sonnie’s friendship with the Ward has been useful in this case, but I need to remind her exactly what she can and can’t share.

“We’re considering it.”

Director Piggot sighs, the honest sigh of someone who has to wade through Cape culture everyday without ever really understanding it.

“And I assume your _consideration_ is dependant on your financial situation? Don’t answer that.”

She falls silent for a moment, looking up at me from her desk. She never asked me to sit down.

“The Hatchet Face bounty is yours.”

“Thank you, Director.” I’m being honest; she could have denied us the bounty and I’d sill have accepted it, giving Sonnie some of the Mannequin bounty instead. She nods back at me as I move to the door, before speaking abruptly as I’m halfway through.

“You might come to regret that, given time.”

I don’t have to look at her to know that she’s staring at my missing arm.

I don’t talk, don’t react to anything, as I walk back to our quarters in the PRT building. I’m schooling my expressions more than ever before, while my mind is racing with dozens of conflicting thoughts. I _was_ reckless, I _was_ irrational, but the worst part is that I don’t know that I wouldn’t do the exact same thing again, the second way around. Sphere was the worst sort of Cape, the one that sets my blood boiling.

This hatred of mine might be irrational, I might be Captain Ahab, chasing the white whale even though I know it’ll kill me someday. The problem is that hatred has been what’s made me the person I am today. Or, rather, that drive to be more than I was before, more than my powers have made me. It’s why I work so hard to punch above my weight, why I push my Crew to do the same. We’re all so much more than we were _supposed_ to be.

I stride over to the safe, idly punching the code in and pulling open the door, using the right arm this time. Opening the case is a little more difficult, but I’m able to manage it by setting it down on a table. I flick through the medical section of the files, before finally settling on the section I’m looking for. One of the Candidates these vials were meant to go to had a badly broken limb, and Cauldron noted that the vial was expected to deal with that, that their vials had healed worse injuries in the past.

I pull out one of the metal cylinders at random, not caring what power it’s ‘supposed’ to give. Without the same psychological and physiological makeup as the intended client, that doesn’t matter anyway. A distant part of me is aware of another part of the files, the part that warned against Parahuman taking any, but I can’t bring myself to care. Worst case is I end up with a Deviation, and I’ll be just as useless as I am now.

I can’t even open the fucking cylinder without gripping it tightly between my thighs so I can undo the lid with one hand. I atomise the lid the moment it comes off, setting the cylinder down on the table to get a good look at the contents.

My heart beats a little faster for an instant and I snatch up the cylinder again, turning it first on its side and then upside down, as glass shards fall onto the table. There’s not a single drop of fluid left; it’s all been absorbed by the foam that was padding the fucking vial. I crush the cylinder with my one good hand, feeling the metal tear and distort beneath my grip before I flex my power just that little bit more and it’s sheared clear in two.

I shout, screaming my anger into the converted range and hoping the walls are thick enough that nobody can hear. I bring my one fucking fist down onto the table, splitting it in two, before stamping on it with my boots until it’s completely gone. I turn my attention on the other cylinders, shearing each in half only to encounter more broken glass, more lost hope. When the last cylinder clatters to the floor, as empty as the rest, I look around at the destruction around me.

I’ve lost control. Ever since I first saw Mannequin I haven’t been thinking straight. I was too reckless, too fucking stupid! I became no better than Tattletale, letting my power do the thinking for me. Even my solution was just to throw more powers on and see what fucking happens, as if that was _ever_ going to end well.

I step over to the wall, slowly, carefully, without letting my emotions show in my movements. I pull the mask off my face, throwing it aside rather than destroying it, and rest my head against the concrete. It’s cool to the touch, and that helps a little. With the lightest touch of my power I could atomise this little stretch of wall, could keep going and burst through into whatever room is on the other side. Instead I just stand there, refusing to give in to that impulse, and slowly start to centre myself again.

After all, what’s another handicap on top of everything else?


	79. Subject: 12.01: Shamrock

I turn the wheel, navigating the van around a wrecked car that’s spilled out into the middle of the road, steering through a narrow path that’s been cleared in the mountain of rubble. It looks like the city is slowly pulling itself back together, slowly starting to look less and less like a vision of Hell. It’s still not quite at the point where manoeuvring the van is _easy,_ but it’s getting there.

I can’t say I miss this city. It certainly never had the same effect on me as it did on the others, but I suppose that’s because I wasn’t seeing it in its prime. The city was already in ruins when I first laid eyes on it, and I had a hard time understanding just what kept us there for so long. The others, of course, knew the city that came before. They remember when the streets were filled with cars, when their bar was more than just an empty shell. Newter told me about what it was like, but I just can’t picture it.

Like so much about this world, it’s beyond my ability to comprehend.

As I swerve around a lorry, fully laden with supplies for the desperate and hungry, I can’t help but think about how my life has turned out. There was never a version of my future in which I could see myself learning to drive. I thought I’d spend the majority of my life shut away in one Temple-Complex or another, playing some minor spiritual or administrative role before quietly retiring on an inadequate pension. I never wanted a dynamic life, never wanted to try and climb the ladder through the Temple and into politics. I just wanted something quiet so that I could be free to waste time reading, so that I didn’t have to worry about infighting or purges or any of the other troubles of this world.

Of _that_ world, I should say.

I don’t think any of that girl remains. When I was a prisoner in that soulless place, all I wanted to do was escape. Now that I’m out, I find that the dreams of the girl I was before are further from my grasp than ever. Now a quiet life means fighting for Faultline, rather than for the people who broke me. It means trying to find a path on a world that still confuses me, that will always scare me. It’s not so bad, not really, and it’s nice to have people I can count on.

From the Industrial School to the Temple to Cauldron, I was always alone. Even when there were people, they were never family, not really. Certainly, we got along well, and there were some I would have called friends, but we were all there for a purpose, professionals even at a young age. It’s hard to make lasting connections when you are encouraged to find fault in the people around you, to speak to a crowded classroom of how they could improve their devotion to duty and faith, knowing with all certainly that I’ll have to sit there and accept it while they pick me apart as well.

These… mercenaries have something I’ve never had, and I’d happily call them family. There’s a uniqueness to us all, a collection of disparate personalities and histories that somehow works together in spite of everything that should separate us. Of course, Faultline is the glue that holds us all together. It’s strange, the way she seems to inspire loyalty in ways that the Doctor never could. Even someone like Sonnie, who would probably have ended up on a rope in front of the Temple for sedition or anarchism, seems to respect Faultline, even idolise her.

It’s why, when she asked me to do this, my first thought wasn’t whether I _should,_ but whether I _could._

The streets around the PRT building are almost unrecognisable now. The glass has all been cleared away over the last few days and every sign of the military encampment around the front of the building is gone. It almost looks normal again; there are even men moving up and down the building, replacing the windows that got blown out by Shatterbird’s attack. I have to say, the glass towers of this world are probably one of the best things about it. I really like the way they reflect the sky; much less harsh than the concrete harshness of Dublin’s Temple.

I bring the vehicle past the rather plain front of the building, where people are hard at work repairing the damage and restocking the small gift shop, and bring the van around the back of the building, pulling into a discreet entrance to the underground vehicle bays.

There’s a barrier and a guard, of course, dressed in the full armoured regalia of the local PRT. I wind down the window, deliberately not showing any of the fascination I have at the electrics that take the place of the actual winding, and hold out my forged ID, and the forged ID for the vehicle. We’re expected, and I flash the officer a warm smile, so we’re let through with barely a glance at the cards. Even if he had looked closer, he wouldn’t have found anything strange. We sunk a lot of money into these forgeries.

A quick trip down a steep ramp and we emerge into the underground parking lot of the PRT building: all bare concrete pillars, yellow and white markings, and wires and pipes crisscrossing the ceiling beneath utilitarian lights. If I were to ignore the branding, I could easily convince myself that I’ve gone back to the backrooms of the Temple, where even the faint pretence at form or elegance falls aside in favour of pure practicality.

The vehicles are different, though; dozens of PRT trucks fill the room, slowly being brought back to life and fitted with new windows to replace the shattered glass. Two trucks pass us on the left, going up and out into the city. I nod to the drivers as we pass and bring the truck into a loading bay, reversing in so that the back of the truck is level with the entrance.

Outside the vehicle, the air stinks of petrol fumes. I don’t react to it at all, instead walking around to the back of the vehicle and opening up the door. It can be opened from the inside, but it’s a much slower process. I take a step back as the door starts to swing open, turning on my heels and smiling politely at the man approaching us.

“Good afternoon. I’m Doctor Anderson, with East-North-East Medical.”

“Corporal Sullivan,” I respond, stepping forwards to shake his hand, “with Asylum East, of course. These” – I thumb my hand over my shoulder, gesturing towards the two hulking armoured figures now stepping out the back of the van – “are Officer Klein and Officer Rutledge, two of our orderlies. I’m here for the paperwork, they’re here for the patient.”

“It’s nice to meet you all. I just wish it could be under better circumstances. I hope you understand if I’m keen to get this over and done with. It’s been a nasty business all around.”

I smile at him with genuine sympathy as he starts to lead us through the underground levels of the PRT building, into a lift that brings us deeper still.

“Don’t trouble yourself on our account, Doctor, we’re used to it. We rarely get called in for pleasant business.”

“I suppose not…”

He trails off as the lift opens up, leading us along a wide corridor flanked by cells before stopping outside of a door lit from above by a red light. Another man is waiting outside, dressed in a suit and tie with a concerned expression on his face. I straighten up as he approaches, assuming correctly that he outranks a mere Lieutenant.

“Corporal, I’m Deputy Director Rennick. I’m here to see things go smoothly, and because I’m directly responsible for the Wards here. She might not have been a Ward for long, but she was one of us all the same.”

“She’ll be well cared for, sir. You have my word on that.”

I don’t know if I’m lying to him or not. There was a time when I would never have dared even risk lying, but those days have long since passed.

“Interesting accent…” the Deputy Director remarks, more to himself than to me, but it’s the sort of clue that’ll germinate in his head if I don’t deal with it.

“My parents were American Irish who moved back to the ‘old country’ to ‘get in touch with their roots,’ sir. I moved here at eighteen to get in touch with mine.”

The self-deprecating sarcasm gets a wry smile from the man. More importantly, it assuages whatever doubts he might have had. The disguise isn’t perfect, of course, but hopefully people will just think I look young for my age. Not that I know what my age is, anymore…

The doctor steps up to the cell door. Unlike most cells I’ve seen, it’s almost six feet wide and it opens with the whirr of electrics, the red light above the door starting to flash. It slides open, soundlessly, revealing a chamber bare of furniture or ornamentation, filled only by the horror.

An amalgam of flesh fills the room, body parts and limbs with no clear front or centre. Three heads, with another face growing out of bare flesh, eight arms of different sizes, ten hands in total. More limbs, more flesh, more than I care to count. A tube is sticking out of her skin, leading to a bag of clear fluid, but I barely notice it. I can’t control myself, taking a half-step back in shock. I can only hope that the others are better able to school their reactions.

Perhaps the worst of it is how familiar this all feels, some strange sense that I’ve seen this before. Déjà vu, I think it’s called.

Besides me, the Deputy Director sighs.

“I had hoped it would get easier with time…”

I shake my head, just enough to centre myself again, and turn away from the wretch.

“She’s been properly sedated?”

The doctor hands me a form in lieu of answering. I flip through it briefly, before looking up at him in confusion.

“We’ll be sending a digital copy through as well. Glory Girl has a shield around her body, even in this state. It flickers with force. To get the general anaesthetic in we had to shoot her then immediately fit the IV.”

“We’ll keep that in mind, thanks. She won’t be the first Brute we’ve had to work around.”

I wave the two ‘orderlies’ past me, stepping aside as they move into the cell. Both are dressed in all-encompassing suits of white armour, articulated by hidden components that are quite beyond me. It makes them stronger than they normally would be, and acts as a brace in case they’re crushed. It means they’re easily able to wheel out the pallet the wretch is lying on, moving her down the corridor and into the elevator while I follow with the doctor and the Deputy Director.

The lift opens up again and Glory Girl is wheeled out onto the loading ramp. The reactions of the people in the parking lot vary: some stop to stare, some offer the former heroine nods of respect and others simply lower their gaze, ignoring the girl. I don’t know which reaction is the kindest.

“Hold a moment,” Deputy Director Rennick says before we can actually get the patient into the back of our van. A red light flashes over the elevator, claxons sounding throughout the room, and my blood freezes in my veins for a second. I school my expression, making terror look like simple confusion. The others have it so much easier, anonymous in their suits…

“We’re bringing a prisoner up,” the Director says by way of explanation. We wait for a few agonisingly long seconds before the doors to the lift slide open, revealing three figures in chemical suits.

The centre figure catches sight of our cargo almost immediately and scrambles backwards in obvious fear before stopping as her arms are grasped tightly by her two escorts. She’s wearing a black version of the fireproof costume I wore in the attack on the Nine, with VILLAN written in white font down the side of her right leg. Unlike the suit I wore, the plate over the top half of her face is transparent. Her eyes are brown, and wide with terror.

Her escorts start to pull her out of the elevator, using their grip on her arms to encourage her to move. They’re dressed in the same camouflaged chemical suits worm by the PRT soldiers in the Nine attack, airtight and fireproof. They bring their captive closer and closer to the wretch before coming to a stop just six feet away. The girl struggles for a few seconds, trying to slip their grasp, to back away from the horror.

“Amy Dallon,” the Deputy Director says, and it all falls into place. Amy Dallon, sister of Victoria Dallon. Glory Girl. “This is your last chance to clean up the mess you made. The last chance to fix what you did to your sister.”

My eyes widen in shock; I just can’t help myself. I never had a family of my own and I guess it made me think highly of the idea, of people who’d have your back no matter what. The idea that she could do this to her own blood is sickening and disappointing in equal measure.

“I… I can’t. I can’t.”

Amy’s voice is faint, distorted as much by her own guilt as by the filter of her respirator. She’s still staring at the floor, her head bowed. She hasn’t even _looked_ at her sister since the lift doors first opened. The Director doesn’t speak, he just shakes his head and signals to the two guards, who lead the girl into the back of a van. We all watch in silence as the vehicle pulls out of the garage, not saying a word until it’s gone.

“Her own sister?”

“Sometimes I think the true cost of the Slaughterhouse Nine isn’t in the dead.” The Director replies, not really looking at me. “It’s in the good heroes they twist into monsters. Take good care of her. Victoria Dallon deserves better than this.”

I nod to him; there’s nothing more I can say. We move the wretch, the _girl_ , into the back of the van and drive out into the city. None of us talks, though I can see and hear clearly into the back of the van thanks to a screen on my dashboard, another technological marvel the people here treat as so depressingly mundane.

Weaving through the city is no less difficult now than it was before, but this time my mind is too wrapped up in other things to care about the state of the roads. I keep catching myself looking at the girl on the camera, keep finding a feeling of unease building up in me as I take in her unnatural shape. The others are captivated by her too, but there’s a wariness to it. My view of her is on a tiny screen beneath the windscreen, but they don’t have that escape. They’re stuck in the back, alone except for each other and her.

The city gives way to an open expanse of forest, to wide roads with hundreds of cars. I see kids peering out of their windows at me, eager to catch a glimpse of a PRT truck. They’ve been sucked into the glamour of this insane Cape culture. They don’t understand what I understand; that the glamour is just a shield for a world that’s every bit as ruthless as the real one.

I turn off at a nondescript junction, pulling into a nondescript parking lot ringed by a rusted chain fence. Out of sight, we dismount from the vehicle, Newter and Spitfire pulling the white helmets off their head as they step out the back. Faultline is waiting for us, sitting on the bonnet of her car with her one hand resting on a black canvas bag.

I move around the truck, peeling away the white letters that loudly proclaimed PRT-AE and replacing them to read PRT-ENE. Behind me Spitfire and Newter are stripping down, replacing the all-encompassing white armour of an Asylum East orderly with the more flexible, but still concealing, attire of a regular PRT officer, with a balaclava and a tinted riot helmet hiding their features from sight.

Faultline has contracted someone called Cyberspace, and she’s somehow adjusted the communications between Asylum East and Department East-North-East. It’s all passing through the internet, which Is something I still don’t really understand and everyone else is almost insufferably familiar with. East-North-East sent a request for a patient transfer, but what Asylum East received was a notice that ENE would be transferring a patient to them.

Faultline should be the one doing this. She should be the one handling all the talking. But the PRT wouldn’t employ a one-armed woman, so it’s fallen to the three of us to pick up the slack. The idea of failing her terrifies me but she’s tutored me in what to say, how to pass off as a PRT employee. How to pass off as someone native to this Earth. I’m still scared, but I’m not going to let her or anyone else see that I’m scared.

Instead I wait as Newter and Spitfire climb into the back of the van, now dressed in black armour and hidden behind opaque visors. With a nod from Faultline I get back into the driver’s seat and pull out of the parking lot, back onto the open highway. I look back at my screen, seeing two black-clad figures sitting on either side of our unfortunate passenger.

I think I’ve figured out why she bothers me so much. She’ll never be able to live a normal life again. She’s been mutilated beyond all recognition, to the point where she can’t even function on her own. Gregor and Newter are the same; mutated by their vials and almost totally dependant on Faultline for support. I’m dependant on her too, but in a different way. By some miracle I kept the illusion of humanity, even though I went through the exact same process they did.

I take one last look at her before switching off the camera and turning my eyes back to the road. It doesn’t help. My mind is still filled with a single thought:

There, but for the grace of God, go I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that this chapter didn't follow Sonnie. There are two reasons behind this. The first is that Sonnie had seven types of shit kicked out of her in the last arc, and three chapters spent following her floating in a tank would make for pretty poor reading. The second reason is that Sonnie is perhaps the least suited person in the whole world for an infiltration mission, so I decided she should hang back while the Crew take the spotlight for a few chapters.


	80. Subject: 12.02: Spitfire

It’s really hard not to look at her. I can’t stare out the window because there aren’t any windows to stare out of and there’s nothing to look at in the back of the van, just a couple of seats along the walls and a few pieces of medical equipment. I guess I could stare at Newter, but that’d probably be a little weird. There’s nothing at all to keep my eyes away from her.

Glory Girl… I used to have a poster of her on my bedroom wall. Not my room in the Palanquin, but back before all this. Legend was up there because he’s hot, but Glory Girl was there because she’s awesome. _Was_ awesome, I suppose. Now I just wish we had a sheet to cover her, but even that feels dishonest. Here I am, a criminal mercenary disguised as a PRT officer, sitting in front of a heroine who’s too sedated to notice me, and too mutilated to be able to move.

Is it any surprise that I feel a little inadequate? That I’m grateful that the helmet of this armour hides my face from her? She’s Brockton Bay’s prodigal daughter, a hero in the truest sense of the word. I saw her throw herself against Crawler while I hid, too afraid to fight that monster. She wasn’t afraid. She flew in like an avenging angel, only to be swatted down and mutilated. A heroic sacrifice, but what did she get from it? She got pulled off the battlefield by a villain and turned over to her own sister, who turned her into _this._

Now we’re using her as a fucking key! A convenient excuse to get us deep enough into Asylum East that we can scrape their files for data. We’re wronging her, but there’s nothing I can do about it. The worst thing is that I know exactly why we’re doing it; I can easily justify it in my head. Newter and Gregor and Sonnie and Shamrock _need_ this. They need to know, they _deserve_ to know, and it’s the only chance they have of stopping this from happening to anyone else.

We have all the right reasons, but that doesn’t make doing the wrong thing any easier.

Maybe it’s hitting me so hard because I used to look up to Glory Girl, and now I’m a villain. I was so _scared_ when Faultline found me and sometimes I wonder if I leapt into her arms out of fear. No, that’s not fair. They’re good people, all of them, and I get that the cape scene isn’t as cut and dry as TV makes it seem. Sonnie can’t trust the system, Elle was let down by it and I’ve got a trio of manslaughter charges hanging over my head if I ever turn myself in. We all have our reasons for doing what we do, but I don’t think the girl in front of me would see it that way.

“We’re almost there.”

Shamrock’s familiar accent over the intercom is enough to bring me back to reality. I reach down and pick up the bulky PRT helmet, taking one moment to look at the reflection of my face in the tinted visor before slipping it on, checking and double-checking the straps out of nerves. I looked tired, and a little older than I should. Fighting the Nine, if you can call shooting off flames at anything that moved _fighting_ , took a lot out of me.

With my power, it feels like there are two kinds of people in the world. The first are people like Bonesaw’s shambling puppets. When I spew my fire onto them, they burn, their skin blistering and peeling under the heat, and then they die. Even if they survived, I’d have crippled them for life. Intellectually, I understand that they were already dead, their brains scooped out and replaced by spiders, but they didn’t _look_ like they were dead. They looked like ordinary men and women, mothers and fathers, _children._ When I went to sleep last night, I saw their faces in my dreams, skin and muscle slouching off leaving bare bone. The eyes didn’t melt. They just stared at me.

The second type of person is the type that can’t be burnt, the type that’ll shrug off my flames and just keep coming. Sometimes it’s because they’re immune to fire, like me. I can still feel Burnscar’s hands around my neck, even though I know she’s dead, know that she’s never coming back. Worse than her, worse than the sadistic glee in her eyes, are the people who are strong enough to ignore my flames entirely.

I didn’t go into Cache’s space. I stayed as the bombs fell around us, feeling the heat of the incendiaries without ever being hurt by them. I was supposed to help protect the heroes frozen by Clockblockers power, to keep them safe until the effect wore off and Cache could let the rest out of his pocket dimension. But Mannequin strode through the flames in utter silence, and Crawler just laughed at me. I couldn’t fight them, couldn’t even try, so I ran into a burning building until the order came through to evacuate. I’ve never felt more helpless.

The van stops, shaking a little as it settles on the brakes, and Newter buckles his own helmet on opposite me. Unlike me, he’s wearing a balaclava underneath the helmet, to keep his skin from showing. He stands and I follow his lead as we move around to the front of our little cabin, unbuckling Glory Girl’s pallet from the floor. I lean on the push bar, breathing heavily, before looking up as Newter places a gloved hand on my shoulder.

“Relax. We’ll be fine. Just do as I do and remember to follow Shamrock’s lead.”

“Okay,” I say, straightening up a little. If I look like I’m confident, maybe I’ll be able to trick myself into being confident?

There’s the shuddering sound of a lock disengaging and the doors of the truck swing open, revealing Shamrock standing beside a woman in civilian clothing, with a PRT badge worn on a lanyard around her neck. Shamrock doesn’t have anything covering her face, but she’s taken steps to conceal her appearance by dying her hair brown and wearing coloured contacts. It’s not a perfect disguise, but it’s not like she has a civilian identity to lose.

None of us do, apart from Faultline. Even then, her civilian identity basically only exists as a money-laundering front. About the only reason any of us have to go out without a mask is if we want to buy a coffee without being shot at, and most of us don’t even have the luxury of _that._

Newter starts to push, shocking me back to the here and now, and I join him, hoping that I wasn’t hesitating enough for the Asylum staff to notice. Instead of the airless garage I was expecting, we step out into the open air, with a gentle breeze blowing behind my visor and across my face. Asylum East, the front of it, at least, rises over us. It’s quite clean, all things considered, with a welcoming atrium behind pristine glass windows. The rest of the building is windowless, true, but it’s all welcoming white concrete concealed by richly-maintained trees, lit up by floodlights against the night’s sky.

Is it wrong that I was expecting something else? The old red brickwork and rusted iron that Labyrinth brings through when she’s at her worst? It doesn’t seem right, that somewhere that looks like this could make her feel this way. Intellectually, I get that Labyrinth’s creations are more about how she _feels_ about something, rather than what it actually is, but it still doesn’t quite fit.

The atrium itself is even friendlier, with a welcoming colour scheme and a floor of polished marble. There’s a secretary sitting behind a desk, and a couple of orderlies in their bulky white armour, but nobody else. It’s getting late, and the day shift has already gone home. The staff member leads us past the receptionist, past the guards, and through a pair of bulky metal doors into a long corridor, the polished marble replaced by utilitarian flooring, though the walls are still bright and cheerful.

Two orderlies are waiting for us at the end of the corridor, in front of an even bulkier doorway that leads into the asylum’s cells or wards or whatever they call them. The staff member turns to Shamrock as we walk forwards, her heels ringing out against the smooth floor.

“So we got the data you sent over, but do you have the paper copy?”

“Sure do,” Shamrock responds, hiding her Irish accent as much as she can. She passes over the clipboard she was given back in Brockton Bay.

“Glory Girl…” the staff member speaks after a second spent scanning the top page. “Wards East-North-East, formerly with a registered affiliate group. Let’s see here… enhanced strength, force field, flight… That’s good, it’ll make it easier to move her.”

“Keep reading,” Shamrock interjects. “With her body in this state she’s lost all motor control, including her flight. She can’t even get off the ground.”

“Not to worry!” The woman exclaims, all feigned cheer and a false smile. “We’re used to this sort of thing. She’ll be well looked after.”

The two orderlies approach, the servos in their powered armour whirring quietly. Our suits were fakes, and really fucking heavy, but these are the real deal. Newter and I step aside and watch as the staff member swipes her key card over a panel by the door, which opens with the clunking of metal and the whirr of hydraulics. The two orderlies bring the young heroine deeper into the facility, as the door closes behind them.

“Now then,” the staff member turns back to us, fake smile still plastered on her face. “I’ll see about getting you signed in to some of our staff accommodation for the night.”

“Finally,” Shamrock sighs, the emotions faked, “I’ve spent far too much of today behind the wheel of a van.”

“I feel you…”

The PRT building back in Brockton Bay had been filled with dozens of little rooms and barracks, for emergencies, or just when people can’t be bothered to go home. Asylum East is much the same, with a small warren of accommodation rooms on the bottom two floors of the administration block, a squat annex attached to the main building by a covered walkway.

I pause on the walkway, seeing Philadelphia stretching out to my right, past the treeline. It’s late enough to be dark, but not late enough for the city to have fallen asleep, so the distant towers are almost entirely lit up, and the streets are filled with the white and red lights of cars as commuters slowly make their way home. It’s a huge city, much larger than Brockton Bay, but the lights stand out much more than the size. Brockton Bay has been dark for a very long time now.

“Now that is a beautiful view,” Shamrock says, pausing a moment as she turns to look out into the city. The staff member smiles at her, a little more genuinely this time, and moves over to the edge of the walkway. Behind her back, Shamrock’s hand moves in a simple signal.

“It really is…” she trails off, slumping unconscious to the ground as Newter removes his hand from her neck, his glove discarded on the floor beside him. With quick movements, he throws aside his helmet and balaclava, and takes a deep breath. Next to go is his armour and shirt, and he seems to relax as his tail, freed from his false back armour, curls and uncurls itself. He draws a knife from his belt, bringing it down the length of his boots to cut the laces before eagerly kicking them away.

For my part, I just take the visor off my helmet and throw it off the edge of the walkway. I’m already wearing a mask underneath it, one that covers the upper half of my face while leaving my mouth free.

Shamrock, having taken her own mask out of a pocket, moves to the end of the walkway, using our guide’s ID to open the magnetic lock on the door. We’re only a few steps in the annex when heavy alarms start to sound and the lighting drops to a low red. Shamrock, wearing Netwer’s gun belt, draws her pistol and fires four shots in quick succession, destroying two turrets that dropped from the ceiling, containment foam dribbling out of their wrecks and onto the floor.

I step up to the door, still open wide, and lean out into the open air. My power feels natural, even though it’s definitely not. It feels like flexing a muscle that’s been part of me forever, but that I only discovered recently. I’d imagine it’s what wiggling your ears feels like, except that’s disgusting.

Liquid shoots out of the back of my throat, spilling out of my mouth in a steady stream. The moment it passes my lips it ignites, turning into napalm that burns hot enough to melt steel, given enough time. I don’t know why it doesn’t ignite in my mouth, at all. I can hold it in there, gathering in the saliva-like fluid, without it igniting at all. I don’t do it often, because it tastes awful, but it’s strange that I can.

Fire spills out across the walkway, cutting off the annex from the main asylum building. I can’t lie, it’s beautiful. My flames seem to burn cleaner than regular fire. There’s barely any smoke, and the heat from it is warm and comforting. At least, to me it is. That’s part of the problem, really. I don’t think I was a pyromaniac before I got my powers, but there’s something so _enticing_ about the flames. I know that they hurt, I know that they kill, that they’ve caused me far more troubles than they’ve solved, but they’re still beautiful.

Newter goes one way, Shamrock goes the other and I follow her. The alarm has stopped now, but the lights are still flashing. I guess they need to hear each other talk more than they need to alarm anyone. We make it down the first corridor without seeing anyone, while I leave a steady stream of fire at key intersections. I could just spew fire everywhere, but that would trap all the staff in with the flames. Have to be careful.

A figure rounds the corner with the whirr of hidden servos, armoured from head to toe and moving towards us at a jog, the same gauntlets designed to carry heavy patients curled into fists that could crush concrete.

Shamrock sprints ahead of me, her movements fluid as she holsters her pistol. She ducks to the left as the orderly tries to grab her, kicking the knee of the power armour in just the right way to have it seize up. While the man staggers on his feet, she moves around his body, delivering a series of blows to the joints of the suit until he’s a prisoner in her own armour. She moved like a robot, without a single wasted motion, and, once she’s done, she just gestures to me to follow her and keeps going.

The next hallway has staff in it, but they’re unarmoured and Shamrock has them on the ground after a couple of warning shots. I burn the corridor once we’re past them, trusting that none of them are fireproof. All around me, I can hear the cracking of flames, screams and shouts, even distant gunshots that are probably Newter’s fault. It’s easy to get caught up in moments like this, to lose myself in the thrill of the chase. Easier still to go too far.

I can’t deny it’s fun, though. Running through corridors with lights flashing overhead, spewing a jet of superheated napalm into a side corridor to ward back a couple of orderlies. One of them takes the plunge and steps through the flames, his armour protecting him from the worst of it, so I spew the next jet right onto his torso, the burning liquid sticking to his chest even as it runs down his body. The armour might protect him from the fire, but it won’t protect him from the heat.

Learned that trick from Burnscar.

My chest feels warm, too warm. Some of my fluid has dribbled from my mouth and onto my bulletproof vest, igniting the material. Even though I know it can’t hurt me, I still panic, fumbling with the straps as I try to throw off the heavy vest. It takes a bit, long enough for me to consider grabbing my knife and cutting it away, but eventually it falls to the floor, smouldering and burning. I breathe heavily for a few moments, checking over my shirt in case any flames have spread to it, before sprinting a little to catch up.

Shamrock stops in the next corridor, shooting the lock out of a seemingly random door. It’s not random, of course. These corridors might all look the same, but Faultline’s had us memorising the layout of the administration wing for the past few days. Each of us knows this place like the back of our hand.

I follow her into the room, briefly looking at the sign on the door; “Internal Affairs.” Inside are two people, in an office that could fit twelve. Shamrock switches her gun to her left hand in a single graceful movement, the barrel perfectly following the cowering staff members even as she looks over the office computers. I keep an eye on the corridor while Shamrock fiddles with the computer, doing something with what Faultline called a data-limpet.

I can still hear fighting, but it’s mostly focused on the other side of the annex. Sounds like Newter has been doing a good job as the distraction. I just hope it won’t get too much for him. A few moments later, Shamrock calls me over. I step into the room even as she throws the two staff members out into the corridor. We’ve got what we came for, now I just need to cover out tracks.

This time I don’t worry about keeping things safe, about limiting myself. I just open my mouth and spew flames all over the office, hearing electronics crackling as they go up in smoke. The air starts to be filled with the stench of melting silicon and burning circuitry, and some part of me finds the smell appealing. With that done, I close the door and follow Shamrock as we sprint away.


	81. Subject: 12.03: Newter

The uniform doesn’t see me coming, not until it’s much too late. He tries to fight, bringing his pistol up to fire, but he’s just too slow. I duck underneath the barrel, grab him by the wrist and throw him over my shoulder, springing off his face with my bare feet just to make sure that the dose sticks. His shirt is untucked and his gun belt has just been thrown on. Poor guy was probably asleep five minutes ago, and now he’s asleep again.

I don’t spare him a second thought, springing from the wall to the ceiling as I bounce down the corridor. I live for this shit, for the rush of speed and the thrill of the chase. Normally everything seems like it’s standing still, like it’s bursting at the seams with contained force, but, when I move, everything seems right with the world.

A door opens ahead of me and someone stumbles into the corridor. A suit this time, not a uniform. I don’t even see if he’s armed before using his shoulders as a springboard, running the length of my tail along his throat as I pass. I don’t have to see him to know what’ll happen next; he’ll be angry for a second or two, then my stuff will start seeping into his bloodstream and he’ll stagger about like he’s drunk, before collapsing onto the floor.

Sweat is a lot slower-acting than saliva, but it still gets the job done. Saliva isn’t as potent as blood, but both me and Faultline agree that I can’t go running about the place cutting myself up every time we get into a fight. It’s not sanitary.

Sometimes I wonder what it feels like. Surprisingly enough, swallowing my own saliva doesn’t really do it for me. Most of my testimony comes from girls who were probably high on something when they came to see me, or at the very least had drunk a couple of cocktails. Faultline tried it once, to get a better sense of what it feels like and how long it affects people, and she told me it feels like being adrift, like you’re being buffeted about by forces outside your control and the only thing you can do is lie back and enjoy the ride.

Personally, I don’t see the appeal. It feels like letting go, rather than moving forwards. Living in the moment doesn’t mean surrendering to it, it means taking every chance you see. Sure, I give people a taste of it, if that’s what they want, but I’ve got my own reasons for doing that. I like talking to people, like telling them stories of all the crazy shit we get up to. Most of all, I like to hear them talk about their own lives, like to hear all the troubles and worries and opportunities they have that I never will.

There was so much life in the Palanquin, but it was all happening below us. Sure, there’d be a couple of genuine VIPs on the upper level, but they were jackasses and arrogant minor celebrities who thought the world revolved around them. I couldn’t go down to the dance floor, so I tried to bring a little bit of its life up to me. Now that it’s gone, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Hopefully the boss will set us up in another nightclub. That way I can just start off right where I left off, as soon as word of mouth starts to spread.

I duck left at the next intersection, shifting my momentum with unnatural ease. It isn’t that I’m light, though I am a little skinny, but my power makes things a hell of a lot easier for me. Each kick puts out a lot more force than it should, but I also don’t really feel the effects of momentum. The idiot standing in the middle of the corridor shouting into a radio does, as my foot connects with his face and he’s kicked to the ground. It throws me off my stride a little, but a quick swing from an overhead light has me moving again.

A couple of fire doors up ahead slow me down, and I’m barely through the door before I have to drop to all fours to get under a spray of viscous containment foam. A quick kick off the doors has me flying forwards again, and I half stumble, half roll out of the path of the foam as it cascades down onto the floor. I grab a doorhandle, using it to fling myself up to the ceiling and get a split-second look at my foe.

It’s a PRT grunt, armoured from head to toe in that bullshit power armour they use here. He’s got a reinforced tank of containment foam on his back, linked up by chainmail-coated tubes to nozzles underneath his massive gauntlets. With every inch of his skin covered, I can’t hurt him. So I ignore him, kicking off the wall to slide along the ground between his legs, narrowly avoiding catching myself on his suit as he reflexively stamps down.

I slam my palms into the cheap flooring to bounce back upright, pouncing towards the wall and throwing open a random door just as the guard pivots, smothering the door with streams of containment foam that build and build off each other. The foam sets quickly, holding the door open and giving me a springboard to leap off, leaving the guard stuck behind the wall of foam that he created. He can get out it with a little effort, but not nearly fast enough to matter.

“Package secured, moving to primary extraction point.”

_Roger, Roger. What’s our vector, Victor?_

“On my way,” I snap back over the radio while hurtling over a printer.

The plan was pretty simple, all things considered. One team runs through the building in a seemingly aimless pattern, setting fires and generally making a lot of noise, while the other sprints in an almost perfectly straight line to the most important rooms in this place. Shamrock and Spitfire were threatening the offices of the Youth Guard, HR, Internal Affairs and Site Management, while I’ve been making a beeline for the Operations Room, the Security Hub, Patient Records and the Director’s office. All to draw as much fire from them as I can.

But that’s done now, and the closer I get to the Director’s office the more of those armoured bastards I’ll find waiting for me. Running rings around these grunts is fun, but it’s important to know when to cut your losses and pull out. Rather than pushing through the next set of double doors I kick off them, reversing direction in an instant and sending myself hurtling in the other direction. A glowing green sign points me towards a stairwell and soon I’m on the ground floor.

A quick sprint down a couple of corridors brings me towards the outside wall of the building, just in time to see Shamrock and Spitfire sprint around the corner. There’s a moment’s silence in which I stand stock still, even while my mind is still bouncing around the place, until cracks start to appear in the wall. It crumbles into nothing, falling apart to reveal Faultline standing there in full armour, her left hand outstretched. I still can’t get my head around the empty sleeve on her right arm, rolled up and pinned so it wouldn’t get in the way.

Behind her Gregor is waiting in a van, the doors open and the engine warmed. They can’t have been here for more than ten seconds and, ten seconds later, the three girls are all in the back of the van as it speeds away. I follow them, leaping from lamppost to lamppost as we leave the Asylum behind. The Asylum was built on the edge of the city, amongst suburbs and stretches of forest, but that quickly gives way to row after row of redbrick buildings, two or three stories high.

I’d forgotten what a city looks like when it’s got working power! The streets are filled with the red and white glow of cars, streetlights are casting a gentle orange light across the sidewalks and up ahead of me the skyscrapers of downtown Philadelphia are lit up like a glowing mountain of steel and glass. There’s no better sight in all the world, and there’s not much I like more than losing myself in this feeling!

I remember what the Bay was like before Leviathan, back when there was still some life left in that fucking cesspool of a city. It wasn’t as big as this place, not nearly as big, but it had enough light to be beautiful. I used to love sneaking out in the dead of night and just cutting loose, sprinting from rooftop to rooftop with the wind in my hair before leaping off and over the streets in an exhilarating acrobatic display.

Nobody else in the Crew really understood it. They’re not fast like me; they don’t understand the rush it gives you, the feeling of liberation! Of course, there were people out there who _did_ understand. Aegis, Kid Win, Battery, Velocity, all the New Wave fliers. They understood it too, and they’d try to catch me when they saw me. Sometimes I’d get the idea that they weren’t trying too hard. The boss said the Protectorate took it easy with us, but I think there was more to it than that. If they caught me, it meant they’d need to stand still. To stop _moving._

Moving like this, it’s easy to get a little lost in the moment. It’s why I don’t see the Cape until far later than I should. Bastard’s in white armour over black tights, and he’s hovering in the air. Only reason he hasn’t spotted me is because he’s looking at the roads rather than the rooftops, and I’m pretty good at getting into cover quickly. I can’t see much at this distance, but it sure looks like he’s eying the roads with a purpose. Looks like the Protectorate have a description of our van.

I creep along the rooftops, darting between cover and keeping to the shadows as much as I can. It’s a different sort of thrill, but the thrill of the chase can be every bit as addictive as moving. It’s just so fucking _fun_ to stalk up to people, to know that they’ve got absolutely no fucking idea that I’m closing in on them. The risk of being spotted only adds to the rush.

Now that I’m a little closer, I’ve got a better look at the cape. His armour has decent coverage over his body, but the visor of the helmet only covers the top of his face. I fucking love it when they do that. Looks like he’s spotted the van, given that he’s holding his fingers against his ear and talking into a radio. They don’t even need to do that to talk, but it’s something they get told to do because it makes them more personable to the public. They spend so much time gladhanding and grandstanding that it becomes second nature to them.

For all that the boss leans a little heavily on all these military protocols, I’m glad she doesn’t have us doing anything like that. We sell ourselves as the ultimate professionals in a county full of costumed lunatics and psychopaths, which basically means we hit hard, we hit fast and we don’t showboat any more than we have to. We certainly don’t have to play dress up for a bunch of brainless fans.

I mean, sure, I’d look good in spandex, but I look good in anything.

“Teuton to console, I have the target vehicle in sight. Moving to intercept.”

And that’s all I needed to hear. In an instant the Cape is hurtling towards the street, and I’m leaping to meet him. A quick pounce off an air conditioning unit and I’m hurtling through the air, my hand outstretched to grab the fucker’s jaw. He sees me at the last second, immediately reversing his direction in mid-air. I sail past him uselessly, but he’s still too shocked to counterattack.

This is why Movers are a pain in the ass. People like him and me, we don’t really pay much attention to the laws of physics. Sure, we pay lip service to ballistics, but that’s about it. I was aiming for where he was going to be, but his powers let him move out of the way in the way that a non-cape wouldn’t be able to. That’s the difference between Parahumans and someone like Sonnie. Sure, she can move when she needs to, but she can’t _move._

I stick the landing against the opposite wall, my hand sticking smoothly to the flat surface before I use that grip to send me up and onto the roof. Teuton flies up so that he’s looking down at me, his arms crossed. Every second he wastes on me is a second, he’s not tearing up the rest of the Crew. Looks like I’ll need to play the role a little.

“Nice moves, if a little boring. That’s the problem with you fliers; no sense of _style._ It’s all straight lines and open skies, nothing _dynamic_ at all.”

“Newter,” he replies in clear voice, like he’s used to giving speeches. “Mercenary working for the Villain known as Faultline. You’ve been an irritant to my city in recent months. First you abduct an asylum inmate, then you take a dangerous Case-53 right off the streets and let it run loose.”

“It? Don’t you spandex-wearing stormtroopers get sensitivity training?”

“It’s a monster, Newter. I don’t know what you did to change that, but its real nature will show through in the end. It is inevitable.”

He hurtles forwards, one fist outstretched in front of him. I push off with the balls of my feet, flying backwards and catching my tail on the lip of the building to pull myself down into the alleyway behind it. It seems the time for talking has passed. But he doesn’t pursue me either, and that sets my nerves on edge. I creep forwards, ducking behind a couple of dumpsters, and look up to the sky just in time to see Teuton rocket off to the next block.

He’s seen them.

I jump out into the middle of the road, hopping from roof to roof through the traffic as cars swerve and crash behind me. Normally I’d be trying not to make so much noise, but all I care about right now is speed. A quick vault off a box truck has me on the roof of an Italian restaurant, another leap has me bouncing off a washing line for a split second before I’m into the next block, just in time to see Teuton swerve out of the way as Gregor shoots a cloud of tear gas out the van’s window.

He doesn’t have him gone for long, though, and soon Teuton is coming back in for another pass as Gregor turns his attention to navigating a red light. Shamrock is leaning out the side door of the van, firing into the air with her shotgun, but her less than lethal ammunition isn’t having any effect. Might be the armour, might be some sort of Brute power. It doesn’t really matter; the effect is the same.

We don’t really have anyone who’s good at dealing with flyers. If Teuton was a flyer with a ranged attack, we’d be completely fucked. As it is, they’re still mostly fucked. But the idiot still has that exposed jaw, so we still have a chance at this. I just have to catch up to him.

This time I’m quieter about it. Rather than leaping straight out at him I dusk and dart among the traffic, gripping onto car doors or the back of vans. At times, I’m only a couple of inches off the road itself. When I’m only twenty yards away I dart into a department store, ignoring the screams and shouts as I bound p the escalator and onto the second floor, sprinting as fast as I can to the windows. As I go, my tail snags a fancy-looking lamp.

Teuton knows I’m here, which means he’ll be keeping an eye on the ground and the rooftops. The trick is to come at him from an oblique angle, somewhere he won’t be watching. I fluck my tail out, hurling the lamp in front of me as I run forwards with my arms crossed over my face. I hear the sound it as it hits the glass but I don’t see it, my eyes hidden behind my arms until the moment I’m clear of the breaking glass.

Teuton is right in front of me, his eyes wide in shock. I know his fight-or-flight instinct will be kicking in, driving him to reverse direction like he did before, but he’s only human. He doesn’t have the reaction time to get out of the way, so by the time he’s moving I’m latched onto his shoulders. I grin at him like a madman, my jaw dropping as I slather my tongue all over his face.

The look of disgust on his face is fucking hilarious, especially as it goes slack and numb. His flight starts to waver, spiralling in circles like a crashing helicopter. He’s losing altitude, fast, and I leap off his torso just before he floats into a brick wall, sliding down it until he’s sitting on the ground like some homeless junkie getting high in a dirty alley.

Faultline sighs with relief as I radio in with news of my victory. Gregor has brought them to the changeover point, where they switch from the burned vehicle to a clean one. All that’s left is for me to meet them at the hideout. I take one last look at the unconscious cape, spitting on him for good measure before leaping away, heading deeper and deeper into this beautiful city.


	82. Subject - 12.04 - Gregor the Snail

**Subject – 12.04 – Gregor the Snail**

She looks almost tranquil. The warehouse is almost entirely dark, lit only by the faint red glow cast from her tank. She lurks amidst the viscous fluid, curled up with her head bowed, asleep and silent. Around her the fluid is marred by flecks of still-healing skin, by darker patches of spilled blood, diffusing as it is recycled into the energy needed to fuel her regeneration.

She has been in the tank for days, slowly repairing the damage dealt to her in the fight against the Slaughterhouse Nine. Idly, I curl my hand a little, running my thumb along my fingers, feeling the shell-like growths that now cover them. My own scars, impossible to remove. I hadn’t known that Burnscar’s power would have this effect on me, that my body would react by growing new shells over the burnt tissue. It had never happened before, which begs the question of how the rest of my shells came to be.

I cannot remember the injuries that caused them to grow, but my memory is far shorter than it should be. These growths that cover my skin, they were not inflicted by me. The people who made are responsible, no doubt driven by academic curiosity over what exactly they had managed to create. From Shamrock’s information, and the paperwork we retrieved, it seems like their process is more art than science. They can control every variable, but the end result will always differ.

To gain an understanding of what powers they will be selling their paying customers, they need to experiment on their test subjects. All they risk is the life of a person they have already dehumanised. Before Shamrock was Shamrock, she was just a number. Presumably Newter and I were the same.

Khanivore twitches in her tank, her tail moving ever so slightly, curling and uncurling. She has been like this ever since we left Brockton Bay. At present, she exists in a state of half-consciousness, drifting in and out of sleep. Sometimes she will be present enough to trade insults with Newter, or to listen to Spitfire talk about the inane celebrity gossip she is so fond of, only to drift away in an instant. She has pushed her body to its limits with combat and drugs, and now she is paying the price.

At least she won’t have to suffer like this for long; a few hours more and she will be back to her usual self, with all her pride and her obnoxious personality intact. She wears her heart on her sleeve and I can’t help but wonder if it is a way to armour herself against the world. She has suffered a great deal since she joined us, but she rarely lets those wounds show.

It is a good quality.

I turn from her, walking away through the cavernous space of the warehouse floor. One of Faultline’s Fixers set it up for us, which means the offices, raised high above the warehouse floor, have all the amenities needed for a comfortable stay in the city. I can see a light on up there, a TV casting shifting colours over the ceiling. It’s probably Newter enjoying some sort of game, or Spitfire and Elle watching some inoffensive programme. Unlike me, they aren’t working tonight.

The doors to the warehouse have long since rusted with age, but it is nothing a little force cannot overcome. The sound is an irritant, but there is next to no traffic through this part of the city. Anyone who does hear a suspicious noise would not be the sort of person to report it. Cold air rushes in with the open door. I feel it on my exposed skin, but not on my new armour. Somehow, the cold feels almost comforting. This happens sometimes; sights or sounds will trigger strange feelings inside me, an emotional connection that should not exist.

I dreamt of the sea long before I had ever seen it and I used to spend hours on the waterfront in Brockton Bay, staring out into the Atlantic. When it was calm, there was something comforting in the gentle swell. When it was rough, that comfort was replaced by a sense of exhilaration and anticipation, marred by a hint of fear.

Shamrock is leaning against the outside of the warehouse, her shotgun held loosely in her arms as she keeps an eye out for anyone who might see us leave. She’s swapped the PRT uniform she wore earlier for the skin-tight outfight she took from Cauldron. She pushes herself off the wall, taking a second to rub her arms against the cold before slinging her shotgun over her shoulder and walking towards me with her usual dancer’s grace.

I am not entirely sure what is going on between us. I have never… never opened up to anyone before. My problems are my own to deal with, nobody else’s. Faultline needs me to keep a clear head, to not burden her with my problems. She needs me to be competent, to know that she can depend upon my unquestioning obedience. I owe her that much, and so much more.

But the Cauldron paperwork… broke me. There is no word I know that fits better. I always knew that whoever was responsible for my situation did not care about me, but to see my inhumanity laid out in black and white proved too much. I could feel myself losing control, and so I left. I did not expect Khanivore to follow me; I would not have followed her, were she in the same situation. I would not have wanted to see her in that moment of weakness, because I did not want to be seen in mine.

And yet I spoke to her. I told her things that I have never told anyone, not even Faultline. I told her about Weatherglass, but, more than that, I told her about my feelings around Weatherglass, my hate for her and the emptiness I felt when she was dead. Talking to her was unsettling, but afterwards I felt strangely better. Not enough to talk to her again, but enough to take her suggestion under consideration.

Sonnie does not think like I do. For all her willingness to put herself in danger, she isn’t loyal to Faultline in the same way I am. She is more loyal to the group as a whole than to Faultline, while I am the opposite. But Shamrock? Shamrock is someone who understands that sort of loyalty, and someone who has seen Cauldron’s programming from the inside.

She listens without judging, and I have spoken to her about things that I have never said before, thought and feelings I have never given voice to. Recently she has started talking to me too, and I have listened to her in the same way she listens to me. Like me, she felt unwilling or unable to share her thoughts with others.

“You look worried.”

“I am,” she deserves honesty from me.

“About Faultline?”

“Yes. I worry she is pushing herself too hard, especially given her…”

_Her injury,_ is what I don’t say. Thinking of her as damaged in any way does not sit well with me.

“I trust her, beyond any doubt, but I know she has always worked harder than everyone else. She seeks to improve herself at any cost, but I am worried that her body will fail her.”

“I don’t think she’d put herself at risk unnecessarily. She planned the last operation, and she didn’t put herself in a physically demanding role. She knows what she’s doing.”

Shamrock doesn’t ask me why I don’t just come to Faultline with my concerns, and I’m grateful to her for it. The others would have given me that ‘advice,’ or even gone to Faultline themselves. They don’t understand, but Shamrock does.

Almost two months ago, I found Faultline trying to overcome the limitations of her power. She was attempting to move from inorganic to organic material, to trick her power. She wanted to become stronger, and I wanted to help her. Parahumans, those who did not purchase their powers, gain their abilities through trigger events, traumatic events in which powers develop as a response to a perceived threat. Some Parahumans have even undergone a second trigger event, their powers growing even further.

Faultline’s efforts to trick her power had failed, so I tried a different approach. I wrapped my left hand around her neck and _squeezed_ , driving her into the ground and pressing her beneath my bulk so that she could not wriggle away. She fought, driving her knees into my back in a futile gesture, even as the life started to fade from her eyes. If her powers had changed as a result of the threat I posed, I would likely have lost my left arm. The price would have been worth it, if she had succeeded.

“Perhaps you are right. All we can do is trust her judgement.”

A door opens up above us and Faultline herself comes down the staircase. I nod to her but don’t say a word, instead moving around to the driver’s side of our rented car. The box truck we’ve been using is useful, but it isn’t inconspicuous or manoeuvrable enough to be good on operations. Shamrock holds the door open for Faultline before waiting while I drive the car out of the warehouse, getting into the front passenger seat once she’s closed the heavy doors.

It doesn’t take long for us to leave Philadelphia’s industrial centre for the city itself. It’s strange seeing so much traffic on the roads after so long spent in Brockton Bay. Philadelphia looks like Brockton Bay in many ways, with the same style of redbrick buildings and the same remains of old industry. But there is more life here than there ever was in the Bay, which means there is far more to be worried about. Every passer-by could look in and see me, or Shamrock’s mask, and alert the authorities. It also means that the Police and the PRT have a far stronger presence on the city’s streets.

But we’ve operated in large cities before, and I am well used to keeping a low profile. So long as I drive carefully, we can go almost completely ignored. Faultline’s contact is meeting us in a nondescript building in in a part of town near the Delaware river, Port Richmond. There isn’t a sign to identify the building; the investigators we hire do not tend to advertise themselves so openly.

Shamrock gets out of the car first, scanning the area with her shotgun lowered but made ready. I follow, while Faultline struggles to open the door with her left hand. I do not help her with her weakness, but nor do I look at her. If she wants my help she will ask, and if she needs my help but does not ask then I will help her anyway.

A man appears in the door of the building, wearing a concealing hoodie under a bulky jacket. I can see the shape of a gun underneath the jacket, but he makes no aggressive moves. He’s clearly been expecting us, and shares a couple of words with Faultline before moving into the building, leading us up a flight of stairs and into the office of our hired agents in Philadelphia.

The office itself is well lit, but the windows are hidden behind shutters that stop any scrap of light escaping. The furniture is cheap, and a pair of bunk beds in one corner suggest that this room serves as both an office and a safehouse. The loose sock on the floor suggests that someone is currently using it to lay low. The business side of the office is cleaner, but there is still an ash tray full of cigarette butts. And yet their computers are clean, their paper files are well ordered and there isn’t any alcohol in the entire office.

The investigators themselves are meticulously bland. Everything from their clothes to their haircuts has seemingly been designed to ensure that they would fit into any crowd. The only way I can distinguish the lead investigator is because he’s sitting at his desk, with the other two flanking him on either side. Faultline takes the seat opposite him, while myself and Shamrock mirror his subordinates.

“Mr Smith. I trust you have good news for me.”

“Indeed I do, Miss Faultline.”

Mr Smith is not his real name, of course. It’s a pseudonym in much the same sense as a Cape name; a shield he can put on when he is doing business, one he can take off when he wishes to become just another face in the crowd. Men like him can be found in every major city in the country, but ones who have managed to remain independent, as ‘Mr Smith’ has, are few and far between. They are worth their weight in gold.

“We have been looking into the information you lifted from Asylum East’s Internal Affairs department, as well as the mysterious paperwork.”

We provided them with a heavily censored version of the paperwork, essentially limited to the client’s bank details and the few numbers listed for emergencies. Even the slightest information leak could alert Cauldron to our investigation, so we have led them to believe that we have been hired by a third party to identify leaks within Asylum East.

“So far, we have a few promising leads.”

The investigator gestures to one of his subordinates, who hands off a folder to Faultline. She starts to flick through it while the investigator talks, splitting her focus between the man and the dossier.

“Internally, Asylum East is squeaky clean. IA have been keeping an eye on a couple of people for dodgy political affiliations and there’s the usual secret mistresses or hidden fetishes that comes up when they’re vetting people for higher clearances, but nothing overtly worrying. However, we have found several inconsistencies among former Asylum East staff.”

“What sort of inconsistencies?” Faultline asks as she turns a page.

“Mostly income that doesn’t match up to their expenditure. It looks like at least half a dozen staff members were receiving some sort of payment, but had been coached not to spend excessively. Once they quit, their standards slipped.”

He reaches over to take a quick sip from a thermos flask before continuing. I can smell coffee in the air. Strong coffee.

“The staff were a mix of psychological, medical and administrative staff. Two psychologists who both quit after volunteering to screen people after the Simurgh hit Madison, a surgeon who retired about a year ago, an administrator who was fired for sleeping with a subordinate and another psychologist who only quit a couple of months ago. That one was spending enough before quitting that IA was suspicious about him.

“Promising,” Faultline replies, looking up from the dossier. “Where are they now?”

“The administrator travelled to New Siam four months ago and defected to the CUI, and the surgeon moved back his home town in rural Kentucky for a quiet retirement. Of the Psychologists, one died of a cocaine overdose shortly after leaving Madison, another is drunk and bankrupt, working as a psychologist in Vegas to keep herself in gin. The last guy, though. He’s promising.”

“Doctor Jeremy Foster,” Faultline reads from the dossier. I look over her shoulder at the picture of the man, seeing a very unremarkable man with greying hair and an expensive suit.

“He’s still in Philadelphia, living in a mansion in Chestnut Hill. The guy’s spent millions at art auctions alone, and he’s had extensive renovation done to the house itself. A lot of the companies he’s been paying specialise in installing security systems and panic rooms.”

“A paranoid narcissist…” Faultline muses, closing the folder shut. “Narcissistic enough to take bribes to keep up his lifestyle, and terrified of his former employers, or what they made him do. An excellent lead.”

“Thank you,” the investigator’s lips curl up in a thin smile, the look of one professional acknowledging praise from another. “Of course, there’s only so much we can do without direct access to him, but we’ve been looking through the phone records of the other five and we think we might have your agent. All we have is a first name linked to a number, but it’s better than nothing. It’s Christof, spelt like it is in the dossier.”

“A lead is a lead, no matter how tenuous. You’ve been very helpful, and you’ve more than earned your pay.”

Shamrock steps forwards and places a small metal briefcase on the table, opening it up to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar notes. We normally use a variety of discrete banking services to handle payments, but we have been keeping this investigation as low-profile as possible. That means cash.

“We’ll be in touch the usual way if we need your services again,” Faultline says once they’ve counted the money, standing up from her chair. Mr Smith follows her example, leaning across his desk to shake her hand.”

“Always a pleasure to work with professionals, Faultline.”

“The same to you, John. Enjoy the rest of your night, and don’t spend it all at once.”

I follow Faultline out into the street, getting into the car without a word and driving in silence through the streets of the city. Inside my head, however, my mind is racing. The answers that have been out of my reach for so long now feel closer than ever before. I feel like we are on the cusp of truly understanding Cauldron, and perhaps if I can understand Cauldron then I will start to understand myself. None of this would have been possible without Faultline; without her contacts, her resources, her training and her sheer determination. It is yet another debt I owe her.

When I first found Faultline I was lost. Weatherglass was dead, and it felt like I had died with her. I understand now that this was merely my programming influencing my mind, but it felt like I had lost my purpose in life, that there was nothing left to do, nothing left to be. If Faultline had not found me, if she had not taken me in and helped me find a new purpose, then I would have died. I might not have had the strength of will to end it myself, but I would have died all the same.

I owe her my life, and that is a debt that cannot be repaid.


	83. Subject: 12.05: Faultline

It feels a little odd to be riding in the back of the van. I’m used to being in the driver’s seat, knowing exactly where we’re going and how long we have left to get there. But back here, I can’t see anything. We don’t have any windows, for obvious reasons, so I don’t have any way of telling how far we have left to go. I could get on the radio and ask Gregor or Shamrock, but I don’t want to undermine them. Gregor has a hard time acting on his own already, I don’t want to make it worse by making him think I doubt his competence.

I don’t doubt him; I’m just used to being in control. The worst part of my disability is that there’s so many things I have difficulty doing on my own. I managed to figure out pants pretty quickly – it’s amazing what you can achieve when pushed by embarrassment – but shoelaces still take an age. I’m just grateful none of the others have asked about getting Velcro boots; it sounds too much like giving up, and I refuse to let this defeat me.

Spitfire seems a little unsettled by my being here, but she’s hiding it well. It’s not nerves or fear, it’s just something out of the ordinary. Newter took it as a chance to chat, while Labyrinth seems to like looking at me. So far, Sonnie has been uncharacteristically quiet. She only left her tank an hour ago, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s still a little out of sorts. Looking at her, curled up on the floor of the van like a sleeping bear, I honestly can’t tell.

“How are you feeling, Khanivore?”

She shifts a little, her immense head shifting on her clawed hands. There’s an elegance to her, a clear intent in every spike or piece of armoured bone. None of the Case-53s have that precision; the process of their creation is altogether far more random.

“I’m fit to fight, boss.”

As always, there’s a distinct sense of uncanny valley whenever she talks. I’m not sure if it would be better if she actually spoke with her mouth, rather than through the voice box, but it certainly doesn’t help that she’s controlling that box through what’s essentially telepathy.

“I didn’t ask if you’re fit to fight, I asked how you’re feeling.”

Everyone in this group has their own issues that I need to be constantly aware of. Sonnie’s is that she doesn’t stop, ever. In combat, she pushes herself far further than she should, taking unnecessary injuries to win the day. Out of combat, she has a ruthless streak a mile wide. It’s the legacy of the person she was before we found her, back when every fight was life or death and everyone who wasn’t part of her group was an enemy. She’s largely come out of that shell, if her inexplicable long-distance friendship with Weld is any indication, but there’s still a way to go.

“Honestly, I’m okay. Just a bit woozy, that’s all. If shit hits the fan, a little adrenaline will see me right as rain.”

“If you say so,” I reply, knowing that getting her to take anything more than the absolute bare minimum of bed rest is a losing battle, “but I still want you to hang back on this one. We need the entrance to be discrete if we don’t want to attract attention. Once we’re inside, I’ll need you to loom menacingly in the background.”

“Now _that_ I can do.”

She flashes me a grin, exposing a maw filled with razor-sharp teeth. I nod back in return, since she can’t see my face beneath my mask, before perking up as Gregor’s voice comes through my earpiece.

“We are approaching the mansion now. It is not the largest in the area, but it is one of the most private.”

We knew that much from our reconnaissance, but it’s nice to have confirmation. It seems Doctor Foster values his privacy, though I’m unsure if that’s the result of paranoia, a desire to be left alone, or some altogether more unsavoury behaviours he wants to keep hidden. Given what we know it’s most likely the former, but I’ve seen all sorts of things in my line of work.

To be honest, all of this feels a little nostalgic. Back in the early days, when it was just Gregor, Newter and myself, a lot of the jobs were like this. We’d be hired to break into peoples houses to intimidate the residents. Sometimes they were union bosses who needed a push in the right direction, sometimes they were company directory who just wouldn’t give. We didn’t pick and choose our clients, except on whether or not we could trust them to keep up their end of the deal. There’s no room for politics in our line of work.

Of course, the times have changed. We’re larger now, over twice our original size, and we’re far better equipped. I reach across the van, imputing a quick code into the boxy equipment, which whirrs to life. In seconds my earpiece shuts off entirely, with only a faint hint of static getting through. I shut it off, and fiddle with the settings of the signal jammer until I’m sure it’s all working as it should. I switch off the jammer with the remote on my belt; no point in activating it unless we go loud.

Across from me, Spitfire stands and moves to open the door. We’re still moving, the orange light of passing streetlight periodically illuminating the inside of the van as we pass them at thirty miles an hour. Newter moves to the door, pausing at the threshold until I give him a nod, at which point he jumps out and into the night. He’s our advance guard; quick and quiet enough to take out anyone on the perimeter.

Spitfire slides the door shut and we spend the next couple of minutes waiting in the tense silence that always comes before a mission. When Gregor hammers his fist against the partition, I almost bolt out of my seat. Seconds later the van lurches to a stop as he hits the breaks and I practically throw the door open before leaping out into the street. The gate to the mansion’s compound is right in front of us, still sealed shut. Next to it is a security post, with a guard in a grey uniform slumped unconscious against his desk.

I move up to the gate as the others wordlessly spill out of the van behind me. It’s a heavy thing, all one piece and made to slide on rails back behind the fence line. With the faint sound of claws on concrete, Khanivore moves up to my side. She grips the gate in her immense claws, moving onto her hind legs so that she’s a terrifying twelve feet high. Her tail splits into four immense tendrils which curl and wrap through the gate to secure it further. She gives me a single nod and I bring my hand down, using my power to slice cleanly through the gate and separate it from the rails.

Khanivore lifts the whole gate up without any sign of discomfort, carefully and quietly striding into the compound and gently setting the remains of the gate down on the grass. She untangles her tendrils from the metal, slotting them back into a single tail and dropping back down onto all fours.

We start to jog through the front yard towards the mansion, an enormous building with wide windows and an enormous expanse of green that it shares with the next mansion over. It’s built in the colonial style, with white pillars and red bricks, but a modern sculpture has been put on top of a water feature in the middle of the drive, and an expensive supercar is parked out front.

Newter suddenly appears at my side, dropping down from the roof of the building. He’s hurried, but not panicked.

“Guy’s a fucking nut job. There was one guy on the gate and _six_ guys in the grounds. They’re all down. The gate post had a sign in sheet, looks like the Doc and the head of security are both inside. The Captain’s on the clock, so he’ll probably be in a security office inside.”

“Good work. Once we’re in, I want you to find and neutralise the Captain. With a bit of luck, we’ll be able to go completely silent.”

“You got it,” he says, before stepping aside as I move up to a pair of ornate French doors. A quick slice of my hand cuts through any locking system the doors might have had and a gentle push has it opening silently on well-maintained hinges. I step aside to let Newter sprint in, closely followed by Gregor and Shamrock. Sonnie and Spitfire hold back with Labyrinth; there’s no need for their unique brand of destruction here.

Suddenly, the silence is broken by a gunshot, followed by another in quick succession. I draw my pistol from my newly-bought left-handed holster and sprint ahead, pausing for a second at the corner before stepping out with my gun raised. The last security officer is slumped on the ground, out cold, with Newter’s hand still on his face.

“You hurt?”

“I’m fine. Bastard got the drop on me, but he wasn’t fast enough.”

I turn to Gregor as he steps in from an office.

“Bedroom, now!”

Gregor and Newter sprint off, moving for the stairs. Beneath me, the radio of the security chief crackles into life.

_“Captain Adams, report.”_

Doctor Foster sounds exactly like someone who’s tired, but has just been shocked awake. I pick up the radio and bring it to my mouth.

“Stay put, doctor. We’ll be with you in a moment.”

It’s petty, I know, but you have to take your catharsis where you can find it.

I start to walk through the house, taking time. The place is absolutely filled with expensive artwork, but I don’t look at any of it. I’ve never had an eye for that sort of thing, and I’ve always thought of it as a frivolous expense. I reach out, dragging my hand along a piece that’s been given pride of place. Foster probably spent hundreds of thousands on this, but how much is it really worth if it’s so easily destroyed?

Money, like Power, is so easily wasted by those who have it in abundance.

“Faultline!” Newter shouts down the stairs. “Bedrooms clear, looks like he’s got a safe room. Want us to start breaking shit ‘till we find it?”

“No!” I respond, waving to Khanivore and Labyrinth as I spot them at the other end of the corridor. “I want everyone in the bedroom; we’ll do this thoroughly!”

I hear a chorus of acknowledgements, as word spreads to the other members of the Crew. We all start to make out way upstairs, passing yet more expensive artwork and furniture. Once we’re on the second floor, I see Sonnie idly flick out her tail once we reach the landing between the second and third floor, a mezzanine level that overlooks the foyer on the first floor. She drags a solid foot of sharpened bone through a piece of modern art that’s been given pride of place, utterly destroying it.

The bedroom itself is all oak furniture and rich carpets, built around an immense four-post bed. Once Shamrock’s inside, I turn to Labyrinth, kneeling down to make sure she hears me.

“Labyrinth, I want you to get rid of all the furniture, then start pulling back the walls. Can you do that for me?”

She nods, and a second later the carpeting around her feet twists and shifts into a patch of grass, which starts to spread out from where she’s standing in the centre of the room. The bed starts to sink into the ground, collapsing into earth before new grass springs from the old sheets. Once the furniture is gone, she starts to twist the bookshelves lining the walls into vines that slowly creep downwards, exposing bare plaster beneath.

This is a world I built with Labyrinth, walking her through it and teaching her meditative techniques to get her into the right mindset. It’s a blank field, an empty space, useful when we need to deny an enemy the advantage of cover, or find a hidden doorway. Sure enough, one wall of the room is entirely made from steel. I rest a hand on Labyrinth’s shoulder, wordlessly telling her to hold it there, and pull her away from the sealed metal doorway.

I place my palm against the wall, pushing my power through the inch of steel like it isn’t even there. A perfectly straight crack forms in an instant, floor to ceiling. I raise my hand over my head and place it against the door again. A second crack, wall to wall and six feet off the ground. I step aside, out of the line of fire. Khanivore steps in front of the breach point, hunched low against the ground. I look at her until she nods, then set my palm against the wall again. A final crack, and the door falls inwards.

Instantly a gunshot rings out, the sound amplified by the metal safe room, and I hear the familiar noise of a bullet ricocheting off Khanivore’s armour. She springs off the floor in an instant and I hear a second shot before it’s cut off by a panicked scream and a shouted question.

“You?”

I step into the confined panic room, seeing doctor Foster held off the ground by Khanivore, a tendril curled tightly around his body.

“Yes, me. Now why don’t you explain just why I’m so fucking familiar?”

He stammers, looking anywhere except at the monster that has him in her clutches. He locks eyes with me, apparently seeing me as some sort of lifeline. I just lean against the wall and rest my hand on my hip.

“I- I saw you on the news! You’re those mercenaries, right?” There’s a pleading, desperate, tone in his voice. “I saw you on the news when you were fighting… fighting.”

“That’s enough, doctor Foster.” I speak, but don’t move. Let him think I’m the cold professional standing between him and the ravenous beast.

“We have questions, and we’ve been tracking down people who can give us answers. You stood out. Spending a little too much money.”

“I’m a good doctor, that’s all!” He squirms, wincing a little as Sonnie tightens her grip. I can see her keeping me in the corner of her eye, so I shake my head. She loosens her grip, just a little. A few months ago, she would probably have ignored me and kept squeezing.

“Doesn’t account for it. Comparing you to your co-workers at the asylum back then, you were spending too much money. Just enough that I think someone was bankrolling you.”

“Your sources are wrong!”

_“Doctor Foster,”_ I respond, a little exasperation in my voice. “Neither of us has time for this. You know my associate here, and I’ll admit I’m curious as to _how_ you know. Your investments are nil, yet you somehow have enough money sitting in the bank that you can coast into retirement. You were being paid to keep tabs on specific inmates within the Asylum, or to spy on the PRT for a foreign power.”

“No,” his voice is a little weaker now.

“You’re labouring under a misunderstanding, doctor. I’m not asking you if you were bent, I’m _telling_ you that you were. Worse, you were stupid about it. Showing too much of the money. If it wasn’t me who noticed it, it would be the people who paid you.”

“Nobody paid me!” he screams, a last futile attempt at denial. “Your sources are wrong!”

“Let’s cut past the lies and bullshit, Doctor Foster. I’m offering you a deal. You and I both know that you won’t be able to maintain this lifestyle if your employers realize you were discovered. Depending on who they are, they might even take offense. Either they terminate their relationship with you or they terminate _you_.”

The steel wall behind my back has turned into wooden vines, willow-like branches that have started to consume the house. The wall is entirely gone now, cold air blowing in from the city, and the roof has started to pull back, curling upwards into the trunk of a great tree.

“I don’t- you’re wrong. These people you’re talking about, they don’t exist. I don’t know them.”

“Okay. Now, I’d have to double-check whether the person paying for the mission is willing to torture or kill you for the information we want…”

I glance over at Gregor, more for show than anything else. Sonnie might have gone for this, but Gregor wouldn’t. Not unless I ordered him to.

“…And he isn’t. Isn’t that good news?”

“God. I’m just- I’m a doctor! I work with politicians, sometimes with big name parahumans. The- the president’s friends come to me! But I’m only a doctor! I’m not a spy!”

“Then you have nothing to worry about if we leave and we spread the word that we thought you were involved. If it’s an unfounded rumour, then nothing happens. Maybe your reputation takes a little hit, but a powerful man like you will bounce back, won’t he?”

“Please-”

“But if you’re lying, if you are involved, the people who paid you to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut will be upset. I don’t think you’ll be able to escape them by hopping on a plane to some remote country.”

His eyes dart wildly around the room, before inevitably falling on Khanivore’s face. She lets her jaw drop, showing off her razor-sharp teeth as she breathes a hot, foul-smelling breath onto his face.

“Fuck!” He shouts. If he lived in a denser neighbourhood, that might have been enough to wake the neighbours. Privacy can be a double-edged sword.

“You have two choices, Doctor. The first is that you trust us and our professional, _circumspect,_ demeanour, with the _possibility_ that we might let the details slip. The second choice ends with us leaving, and you suffering the _inevitable_ consequences of us talking.”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, screwing them shut like he’s trying to wake from a dream. When he opens them and sees his situation has not magically improved, he starts to talk.

“My old handler contacted me in late February. Asked me to forward him any information about a monstrous cape that was going to show up in the city. The guy said to expect news about deaths, disappearances, maybe cannibalism. He sent me a dossier with _that_ thing’s picture in it.”

Khanivore’s tendril tightens as she lifts the doctor another six feet off the ground. I step off the wall and move up to her, placing my hand on her shoulder. Her head darts down as she glares at me and I feel a momentary flash of fear at the look in her eyes. She could kill him, could kill me, in an instant. Instead she sighs and rapidly uncurls her tendril, tossing the doctor into the corner of the room.

Rather than acknowledging what just happened, I lean over the doctor and continue my questioning.

“Did your handler have a pseudonym?”

“Christof.”

My heart leaps.

“Spell it.”

“C-H-R-I-S-T-O-F.”

I’m grateful to my full-face mask for hiding the almost manic grin that spreads across my face. It’s good to be _right._

“And what else did Christof have you doing?”

“I…” he descends into hacking coughs, “I sent him regular reports on new inmates, recent hirings and firings, changes in policy. Occasionally he’d have me do something more specific like putting a thumbdrive in one of the main computers. Before February, he hadn’t been in touch in two years.”

“What happened two years ago?” I’ve got a bad feeling that I’m right about something much worse…

“Wisconsin. The Simurgh attack. There was an open call for civilian volunteers. My contact left me a message. Asked me to volunteer, see who was filtering out. I told him to fuck off.”

Every clue points to a greater picture, how they operate and where the priorities are. Three psychologists from Asylum East, all asked to go to Madison. Two went, ending up dead or discredited within months. The third stayed, and was kept on. They have an interest in that city, enough to justify burning two of their agents in Asylum East.

“Keep talking,” I say to him, though my mind is already racing with horrifying possibilities. “Let’s talk about some of the other jobs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter borrowed some dialogue from Interlude 18, though not as much as you might think.


	84. Subject: 12.06: Labyrinth

The grass feels soft between my toes. The morning dew has evaporated, but not so much that it’s become dry and course. The sun itself is just beginning to creep into the sky; well past the horizon, but there’s a long time before it’ll be midday. It’s warm against my skin, a comfortable kind of heat. Where the sun doesn’t hit, I’m cooled by a gentle breeze.

They buried the king beneath the hill. I like to think it was a grand ceremony, that he went surrounded by wailing women and a hundred of his most loyal knights, crying beneath their helmets. I can feel his grave beneath me, a wooden ship dragged to the top of the hill and buried with all his treasures. Golden helmets, fine swords that are still sharp today, jewels and armour, torcs and crowns. The old king’s bones have long since rotten away, but his presence is still here.

Down in the valley is his kingdom, a land of ruins. Old walls of layered stones, marking out fields that have been reclaimed by tall grass; a shepherd’s hut without a roof, a tree growing proud and tall even as it pushes aside the old walls and pokes out through gaps and cracks; a castle on the hill opposite, slumped and ruined but still with a hint of its old pride. They were beautiful when they were built, but age has given them a different sort of beauty.

The barren ruins. This was my first attempt at building a world outside of the bad place, a place where I could feel comfortable, where I could go to think and be at peace. It had almost worked, until negativity and self-loathing started to fill in the cracks. It’s a beautiful landscape, yes, but there’s a solemness to it as well. There are pits hidden beneath the tall grass, the crumbling walls would collapse onto travellers at the slightest touch and the beams holding up the floors in the castle are old and rotted, ready to collapse underfoot.

I like this world, even though it’s unpredictable and dangerous. I go to the high temple when I want to relax, but I come to the barren ruins when I want to _think._ I bring it through into the ‘real’ world when Faultline wants me to make an area too dangerous for people to cross. She doesn’t ask me to do it often, so I like to look at this world when I can.

I can feel… a faint pressure on my head, pinpricks moving down my scalp, parting my hair. They’re sharp, but their touch is gentle, moving down the back of my head before disappearing and reappearing at the top. The motion repeats, again and again, as regular as the hands of a clock and I find myself drawn to it. The grass starts to fade away, the breeze disappears and the warmth of the sun is replaced by a different kind of heat.

I’m not sitting on a hill anymore. I’m sitting on a pile of cushions, leaning up against smooth bone and thick, almost scale-like, skin. Sonnie is curled up around me, or did I find her curled up like this and crawl my way into the middle? I can’t remember things, sometimes. I wander, forgetting where I came from, where I was going, even what’s around me. Sometimes, if we’re waiting somewhere for a long time, Newter or Sonnie will curl their tail around me, making sure that I can’t do something silly.

The pressure returns, four points travelling down my head as Sonnie caresses my hair. I shift a little, trying to snuggle even closer to her, and her movement stops, the pattern breaking in a way that has the soft grass returning beneath my feet, the wind on my hair, before the pattern starts up again as she resumes her steady strokes. Sonnie’s mass shifts a little as she turns her head, a beady grey eye flicking down to look me in the face.

“Welcome back, Elle.”

I don’t make a sound, not sure I can, but the corners of my lips curl up. I can still see the fields around the old burial mound, but I’m separated from them by a circle of cheap carpeting, by a mound of cushions and by the creature curled up around me. A patch of reality, surrounded by my dreams.

“I think I’ve finally figured you out.”

I don’t react to her words, not sure I can even hear them, but I do react to her intent. She sounds resigned, a little uncertain, but caring. So very caring.

“You understand this isn’t my original body, right? The only part of _me_ that’s left is my brain, surrounded by shock-absorbers and its own little shield of bone. I’m human, just like you, but I don’t live in the human world.”

I like Sonnie. At first I liked her because she felt _nice_ when I was away. Everyone feels like that a little, faint glimmers of other worlds pressing down on their head. Gregor and Newter feel a little stronger than Faultline, but Sonnie felt so powerful when we first met. Like an open wound, pouring through into this world. That feeling has faded with time, becoming weaker than any of the others, but now I like her for other reasons.

“I could have gone back, you know. Not to my original body, but we could have found a clone or something. It would have been a lot more illegal than we’re used to, but I could have done it. I could have even asked my mates to whip up something that looked human enough to pass for it. But I didn’t, and I think you understand why.”

I shrink back, the field creeping a little further into sight. I’m not pulling it through, instead I’m pulling myself to it, making it brighter, more real, even as the real world starts to fade away. Sonnie shifts beneath me, the movement bringing my attention back to her.

“It was dangerous, what I was doing. I could have died every single time I went into the pit. But it was safe, all the same. This body, it was armour against a world I didn’t want anything to do with. I got scared, so I ran as far and as fast as I can. And here’s where I ended up.”

She moves her hand off of my hair, cupping my cheek gently.

“I think your power is the same. I think something horrible happened to you, Elle, something you probably can’t even remember clearly. You were stuck in a bad place that wasn’t ever going to end. You needed somewhere safe away from that, somewhere you controlled. So you built that sanctuary for yourself.”

I start to slip back, the fields pressing closer and closer. The floor and the cushions fade away for grass, but Sonnie doesn’t disappear with them. I can still feel her here, can still feel that fading hint of something else deep within her.

“I get it. It’s so much easier to stay in a world you control, one that makes sense. Just remember that we’re here too. When I look back on the person I was before, my biggest regret is that I drifted apart from the people I cared about. They _saved_ me, but I never thanked them. They gave me a way to hide from the world, and I used it to shut them away.”

I let the barren ruins fade away, turning my eye out to my other worlds. Some are small, little more than a single building created as a way to pass the time, or in an attempt to give voice to however I was feeling when I made them. They’re chaotic, sometimes insane, and not worth naming. Others are larger, more purposeful. The barren ruins are the size of the valley and the two hills, the lonely hallways stretch out in a maze for miles but never get any taller. The burning towers are the opposite, stretching high into the sky and wreathed in flame.

The high temple sits above them all. Faultline and the hypnotist she hired helped me build that one. It’s all my personal triumphs, all my inner strengths. Ziggurats and enormous stone statues all surrounding an enormous labyrinth, a declaration that this is who I am and this is what I have achieved. It grows and grows every day, layer upon layer expanding as titanic statues take shape, smiling and content.

Beneath every world, spreading out larger than any city I’ve ever seen, is the bad place. It’s too large to ever explore, and yet I know every inch of that place. Every day I spent in the asylum added to its endless expanse, and, every time things have gotten bad, I’ve found myself flung back into that place. As big as it is, it always takes a while for me to find my way out.

I don’t like looking at the bad place, so I turn my attention away. I reach out, feeling the spark of a new world, and start to focus on it. At first, it’s nothing. Just vague impressions of emotion as I start to meditate, calming myself like Faultline showed me and bringing up the feelings I want to shape this world. Safety; a warm body curled around me, keeping me centred as she strokes my head. Sanctuary; the feeling of control that comes when I bring my power into the real world, when I reshape steel and concrete into stone.

There’s a spark, and the world springs to life. It’s nothing right now, but it’s slowly growing. I look down, seeing a single stone tile forming beneath my feet. Others branch and split until I’m surrounded by an octagon formed from flat tiles held together by thick black cement. The borders of the shape form from smaller tiles, a patterned edge of white diamonds with black tiles at their heart. As time passes, the pattern spreads even further, large orange tiles with surrounded by black and white.

After a while the tiles stop, and walls rise up around me, still in that same octagonal shape. They’re topped by long glass tubes, which flicker into life as I watch. Pink neon rings the top of the wall and tubes of that same glowing colour ring the base. Light from overhead, though there’s no source, illuminating me in spotlights that seem comforting, rather than harsh.

Tiered balconies appear overhead, surrounding the pit as they climb up to an old ceiling vaulted with stone. The building was a church, once, but the faithful moved on and it was turned to new purpose. Wires and cables fill the space, held in place by heavy metal staples driven into the stone. The balconies are not circular; at opposite ends of the pit they give way to raised stages surrounded by more lights than I’ve ever seen, set beneath great curtains of strands that stretch from floor to ceiling, lighting up in kaleidoscopic patterns of colour.

Blood was spilled here, pouring out onto the tiled floor beneath my feet, but it doesn’t feel dangerous. It feels like this space, ringed by walls and surrounded by lights, is separate from the rest of the building: from the tiered seats, the wires and machinery, the tunnels and warrens which even now start to form themselves as more of the space appears. It’s not designed to hurt, like my other worlds. It’s a way to keep the outside world at bay, to isolate myself behind shields of light and sound, the roar of a crowd secure behind impenetrable walls.

The glistening church.

It’s still not large, not when compared to my other worlds, but it’s worthy of a name. There’s something real here, something more than idle thoughts I’ve stitched together. I’ve never made anything this modern before, but perhaps that’s because I wasn’t actually looking. Inspiration comes to me sometimes, and I can’t help but wonder from where?

I move fitfully in my sleep, slowly opening my eyes as a sound intrudes upon my mind. I open my eyes, only to find myself lying in my bed. Emily is on the other side of the room, moving to turn off her alarm clock. I think it’s morning, but how many mornings has it been? Emily walks over to my bed, or the bed I’m sleeping in, and gently shakes my shoulder.

“Hey, Elle. It’s time-” she spots my open eyes. “Oh, you’re awake.” She smiles, warmly, and ruffles my hair.

“Do you think you can sit up for me?”

I blink, trying to get control of my body again. Right now, it would be easy to slip back into the glistening church, or any of my other worlds. The real world, and my body, feel so muted. It takes a lot out of me to sit up, but I push on until I’m standing. Emily beams at me, giving me a hug that feels warm and welcoming, before leading me by the hand out into the corridor.

She helps me through the morning, making sure I wash behind my ears and eat my cereal without spilling any of it. She watches as I brush my teeth before taking over as my control slips and the toothbrush falls from my hand. She does all of this without judging, without commenting at all. I don’t know what she sees in me, don’t know why she spends so much of her time helping me out. All I know is that she’s genuine about it.

My robe is made to be easy to put on; all I need to do is slip it over my head. My arm still ends up through the head-hole, but Emily helps with that. She leads me through the rooms. They’re different to the last ones I remember, but that’s been happening a lot lately. Faultline says we can’t go back to the Palanquin anymore, and that makes me feel sad. I liked having my own room, and I liked sharing it with Emily even more. It really felt like mine, where the room in the asylum didn’t.

Without noticing it, we’ve moved into a big room with a map on the floor, surrounded by couches. Faultline is standing on the map, a long stick in her hand, and the others are either sitting on the couches or standing behind them. I’m sitting next to Emily with her hand on my shoulder. I lean over until I’m lying on my side with my head resting on her legs. She starts to run her fingers through my hair.

Faultline’s talking, has _been_ talking for a while. I try to listen.

“-can’t get in through the north. The wall is built on the other side of the Yahara river, and the PRT occupies Marquette between the Yahara and Route One-Fifty-One. Granted, a lot of that is the abandoned processing centre but it’s still too dense to get past. Approaching from Lake Mendota or Monona would probably draw too much attention. Luckily, the Western side is much larger. That’s our way in.”

My attention slips again and I lose the rest of the meeting. Time passes, with a different bed every night. Faultline leaves us alone quite often. I know she does that sometimes, when she has to plan something important. She takes the new girl, Shamrock, with her. Emily keeps me busy, talking to me about whatever comes into her head. One night, all seven of us get together to watch a film. I didn’t really understand the plot, but it was nice to have all of us together.

The next morning, I wake up in a tree. I’ve wandered in the night, travelling to the barren ruins without really thinking. I pull my world back, the tree gathering back into a plain bed. Part of me is reluctant to do so; the tree was comfy.

Emily helps me through my morning. This time I don’t drop the brush, managing to faintly smile at Emily. She smiles back, picking up a hairbrush as she leads me out into what looks like the main room of a hotel suite. Faultline is there, talking to Spitfire and Newter. I don’t hear what she said, but Emily throws the hairbrush across the room to her. Melanie leads me over to the couch, helping me sit down. She sits on the back of the couch, her feet planted on either side of me, and starts to brush my hair.

“This is badly tangled. Were you sleeping in a tree again?”

I manage to nod, just a little, focusing on the sensation of the brush pulling apart the knots in my hair.

“I’ll try to be gentle. Let me know if I’m tugging too hard.”

I nod again, starting to lose myself in the feeling of the brush passing through my hair, in the comfort that comes whenever I’m close to Melanie. I have a world for that feeling, one of calm waters and long beaches that can quickly become one of raging storms and the full force of nature.

“Don’t make water, okay, Elle?” Faultline asks, pulling me back. “It’s not that we’re paying the deposit for the room, but it’s a matter of principle. We’re professionals. We don’t leave messes.”

I focus myself just enough to send away the sand. I can’t stop myself from bringing a change through, so I switch focus to the high temple instead and start to form a statue behind Melanie, pushing out of the wall behind the couch. Its hands are outstretched, returning her gentleness.

Gregor and Shamrock enter the room at the same time, both dressed and ready. Melanie talks to them before leading me away so that I can put my robe on. She doesn’t really talk to me and, although she’s still comforting, I know that she’s switched from Melanie to Faultline, and I need to pay extra attention to what she’s saying.

She has me turn our window into a doorway and bring through a set of stairs leading to the ground. It’s dark outside, which makes me think it’s really early in the morning. We cross a large open area, streets and roads without any buildings on them, just the faint impressions of where they used to be. At the end of the flat plain is a large wall, so big I can’t really see the top of it. Faultline presses herself against the wall, creating her own doorway in a crackling blast of dust.

“Labyrinth,” she asks me, and I know it’s time to listen _really_ carefully because she hasn’t called me Elle, “shore it up? Make it a nice hallway? Taller and wider than this, please.”

I nod to her, waiting as my power slowly starts to creep across the wall. I think about bringing something through from the high temple, but I can tell that the others are a little scared. Shamrock is clinging to Gregor, looking at the small hole Faultline made with fear in her eyes.

So I pull through the glittering church, taking the corridor behind the curtain screen and expanding it to fit the space. It’s a dark corridor held up by pillars, with irregularly spaced blue-ultraviolet lights casting deep shadows along the walls. Faultline is looking at me strangely, probably because it’s not something I’d normally make. Sonnie isn’t looking at me at all. Instead her eyes are drifting over the pillars, reaching out with her claws to scrape the tiles like she’s not sure they’re real.

She drops back, walking beside me on all fours, and nuzzles my side with her head.

Ahead of us the wall keeps splitting and shifting into the corridor, until it suddenly ends and we’re thrust into a ruined city, sealed behind a towering wall.


	85. Interlude 12: Matryoshka

In my sleep, I dream of better places. Of the sun rising over the mountains, their snowy slopes bathed in a golden light. The empty steps, beautiful in their bleak indifference to our presence. Of the more human joys as well: the look on my father’s face as he turned on our electric lights for the first time, the patient smile of my mother as she taught me how to sew, to knit, to take simple ingredients and turn them into wonderful meals. Sometimes, I think I’m still there. I’ll pull myself out of bed, ready to help out with the morning’s chores, only to realise as I pull the covers back and feel cheap carpet beneath my feet that I’m not there anymore, that I haven’t been there in years.

I remember other places, too. I remember a village in an African savannah, a frozen town on the shores of North America, a city so full of people that they had to live in towers that scraped the sky, and dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of other places. I remember fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, brothers and sisters. Beloved sons and daughters, with all the feelings of loss that accompanies them. My mind is no longer my own. Instead, I am filled with the thoughts and emotions of dozens of people, a great weight that threatens to overwhelm my paltry memories.

This morning I woke thinking I was someone else. It was only when I saw my face in the mirror, a face I almost didn’t recognise, that I realised who I really was.

It’s becoming harder and harder to hold on to who I am. Parts of my past are starting to slip away, and I think my personality is disappearing with them. Or perhaps I am absorbing the personality of these new thoughts, these new memories. I remember one of the village elders, an ancient woman wrapped in a shawl. I can’t remember what she looked like, but I do remember the lesson she gave me.

She held up a broom in front of me and said that she had owned this broom since she was my age. Often the bristles would break, and new ones would need to be added. On rare occasions the wooden handle would crack or split, and a new one would be found. Finally, the cords of leather holding it all together would fail or go too lose to be useful, and new ones would be found. The babushka told me that the broom was still the same, even once all the parts had been switched out, but I think differently now.

Every part of my soul is being switched out, so gradually that I can’t even notice it as it happens, and, when it’s gone, there will not be a single part of me left in this body. Just the person that took my place. The worst part is that there isn’t anything I can do about it. I’ve already given up so much for a little comfort and the illusion of privacy, now I’m powerless to stop as I let go of who I really am.

I wonder how long until I forget my own name? I haven’t spoken it in years; _they_ don’t like it when we use anything other than our number or the names they gave us.

At least my cage is pretty. They kept me in a simple cell for so long, with a pane of reinforced glass for a wall. It felt so flimsy, but it was more than enough to keep me contained. There was another cell opposite me, with another see-through wall. No privacy, no anonymity, just featureless grey walls and a number. They made me do so much to earn this room, and every day I wonder if it was worth it.

I try telling myself that the illusion of choice isn’t a choice at all, but that doesn’t save me from my guilt.

My door opens, and a soldier steps into my room. He’s dressed in a strange uniform, with a stiff canvas vest over his chest and a helmet on his head, all in white and with that horrible logo on their shoulders. His face is hidden beneath a balaclava. The rifle in his arms is more metal than wood, boxy and angular in a way that seems unfamiliar to me, but not to the memories now floating around in my head. Of bullets piercing my legs as I break free of my cell, stumbling then falling before they grabbed me by my arms and dragged me straight to her. To _me._

He didn’t knock, but I wasn’t expecting him to. I’m well aware that all I have is the _illusion_ of privacy. He doesn’t say a word to me, just looking me up and down for a moment before turning and leaving the room, gesturing for me to follow. I do, of course. I’ve long since stopped any of the petty resistances that used to keep my spirit alive. It’s easier when I just do what they want me to, when I’m the quiet, demure, _tool_ they want me to be.

Perhaps I’ll get closer and closer to that ideal as I lose more of myself. Perhaps I’ll lose my guilt too, and fully accept that my life is no longer mine to control, that the responsibility for my actions doesn’t lie with me. I’m just a tool, useless without someone to use me and devoid of all agency. Of all guilt. If I repeat that lie enough times, it might even become the truth.

They don’t put me to work in my cell. I’m sure it’s because they want to cut down on the distance they need to travel, or to keep everything controllable, but it’s a welcome mercy all the same. It means I can build up the illusion that my day ends when they take me back, that I’m just like any other employee who goes home at the end of the day.

In keeping with that lie, my room in this part of the compound might almost be an office, if it weren’t for the complete absence of any furniture or even a door. It’s like my old glass cell, but without any wall at all. Instead, I could just step out into the corridor if I wanted to. Not that I ever would. It’s still a cell, but it’s not meant to hold me. I’m the walls, the warden and the guards, all in one.

My escort leaves me alone in my little space and I sit down, leaning against the back wall. Trying to get comfortable on the hard concrete is just as impossible as ever, but it’s better than standing around all day. Idly, I start sifting trhough my memories, trying to separate what’s _mine_ from what isn’t. It’s a task that gets harder every day, but it also kills time. There’s nothing here to keep me busy, not even cracks in the walls I could count. All I can do is wait, as scientists, guards and subjects pass me by without ever looking at me. Sometimes I count them, like counting sheep.

On some days, they don’t use me at all. I just stay here, stuck with my own thoughts, until someone comes and tells me that my shift is over, that I can go back to my cell. On other days, there’s a queue of people waiting their turn like lambs to the slaughter. I’m kept busy, but those days are much worse. They cost much more of my soul and my memories.

Around me, I can hear the busy chatter of the scientists as they wander the halls. Sound carries in these concrete corridors, but not enough to actually hear what they’re saying. I haven’t left this facility since they first took me and turned me into this, and I’m still no closer to actually understanding the purpose behind all their efforts. I’ve been part of their experiments, of course, before they gave me my name, but I never knew _why_ they had me do what I did.

I can hear footsteps coming down the corridor, four sets. The first is regular, disappointingly normal. Two of the sets are heavy and purposeful, almost lockstep in their unity. The last is irregular, faltering, and halts intermittently as the source of the footsteps is dragged down the corridor. Looks like they do need me today.

I still don’t know the doctor’s name, but his face is more memorable than my own mother’s. Not because it’s unique, though his hair is styled in strange ways, but because he’s one of the few faces I see almost every day. He used to look at me with barely contained fascination, like a chef looking over some choice ingredient, but as the years dragged on that fascination has fallen from his face. Now it’s almosy like he doesn’t see me at all, like I’m as much a part of this place as the floor or the walls.

I still stand when I see him, my hands clasped demurely in front of me and my back straight.

He’s followed by two familiar faces, two subjects who, like me, have chosen or been chosen to abandon our morals and our principles in exchange for a few creature comforts, for a new name. Gwerrus, Egesa and Matryoshka. There are others, of course, but these two are the ones I interact with the most. Unlike me, their inhumanity is clearly visible. Egesa’s neck is three times longer than it should be and he walks with a stoop, held down by a gnarled hump on his back, His arms split in two at the elbow, with one set of hands and another that end in vicious scythes of bone. Gwerrus is huge, seven feet tall and some middle-ground between muscular and fat. Her skin is thick and pale, her fingers stubby, and her face has a porcine nose, cauliflower ears and lips that are curled away from her teeth.

The girl held between them looks tiny in comparison. I haven’t seen her before, which means she must be new; I see every subject in here, given time. I’ll probably be seeing a lot more of her over the next few days, as she slowly adjusts to her new life. She looks young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, and the fear on her face is genuine. Her skin is green like new wood, with irregular patches of gnarled bark coating her like armour. She’s looking at me like she knows what’s coming, like she’s been here before, but that’s impossible. I would remember; I _always_ remember.

She’s thrown to the floor in front of me and I take a step forwards, the doctor looking impatiently at me. I close my eyes, trying desperately to hold onto some idea of myself, and split my body. I look human, can even pass for human, but that’s just because my rot is on the inside. The moment I loosen my hold on my body, cracks start to appear in the façade. Horizontal rents start to appear on my skin, as the coiled tendrils that make up my form loosen and relax, the rest of my skin minutely splitting like the scales on a snake.

I could draw it out, could delay the cost to my mind for a few extra seconds, but it wouldn’t change the inevitable. Better to just get it all over with. I split into a mess of ribbons and subsume the girl, reforming into my human shape. It’s not a perfect disguise anymore, it never is after I’ve used it. The horizontal lines are still there, obviously inhuman. I think it’s better this way. Better that I look as monstrous as I feel.

I can feel the girl now, feel her presence inside me. I can stack this up as often as I want, adding more and more people. It’s not as simple as wrapping my ribbons around them; they’re physically _somewhere else_ even while they’re definitely in me. They never found an upper limit, but I do get more and more useless as the number of minds pressing down on me grows. Even with one, it’s distracting. I can feel her terror, her nervousness, even a sort of weary resignation, like she suddenly realised that this is what the rest of her life is going to be like.

The doctor leaves without a word, Egesa and Gwerrus following him like loyal bodyguards. I don’t know how long they’ll have me hold her. Sometimes it’s only for a few minutes, a little warning to an uncooperative subject. Other times they’ll have me hold them for almost the whole two hours it takes for me to subsume them completely. On rare and horrible occasions, they never tell me to let them out.

I feel something, a sensation of emotion or feeling, and the first memory rises unbidden to the forefront of my mind, replacing a memory of my own that I’ll never have back.

_I’m not really asleep, just pretending. At first it was because I was worried about the theology exam next week, but now it’s because there are strangers in our barrack room. He’s standing in the centre of the room, wearing a strange suit with a red strip of cloth tied around his throat. The quartermaster is standing next to him, the stern terror looking downright nervous as the stranger walks around the room, peering at the sleeping girls in their beds. He steps over me and I close my eyes just a little bit more, afraid he’ll spot me looking through my eyelashes._

_Once he steps back, his steps softened but still noticeable on the concrete floor, I risk another glance. The quartermaster is looking up at the stranger with a hopeful expression on his face. It feels completely unnatural when the only look I’ve ever seen on him is a fierce scowl. The stanger says something, low and inaudible, and the quartermaster lets out the breath he’d been holding as his lip curls up in relief. He shakes the stranger’s hand, and the man pulls an envelope out of his suit pocket. The quartermaster opens it, taking a moment to flick through the papers inside, before slipping it in the pocket of his uniform and stepping out of the room._

_In the hallway, I catch a quick glimpse of the Governess, one of the few friendly faces in the whole Temple, as she takes her cut from the envelope. She’s not smiling, instead looking weary and resigned, but I still can’t help but feel betrayed. They close the door, leaving us alone with the stranger. I could try and fight him, but there’s no way I could overpower a full-grown adult. He takes a last look around the room, his gaze landing on me like he knew I was awake, before he speaks._

_“Door. Eight Subjects to Processing.”_

_A hole opens up in my bed, and I fall._

I’m flung against the wall, snapping me free from the stolen memory, as the ground beneath me shifts and trembles and the facility is filled with the sounds of fracturing concrete and screeching steel. I stagger to my feet, unintentionally stepping out into the corridor. At first, I want to scramble back to my proper place, but then I start to hear the gunfire.

I can hear the sound of the guards firing their rifles all around me, echoing up from the stairwells to the cell blocks on the floors below. I can hear other sounds, too. Heavier sounds of a distant conflict. This isn’t just another revolt in the cells. Hesitantly I take a step into the corridor, then another, and another until I’m sprinting through the halls, not really sure where I’m going. All I know is that if I don’t at least make the attempt to escape then I’ll never be able to live with myself.

I turn the corridor, spotting the doctor and my two fellow collaborators moving hurriedly down the hallway. They stop at the next junction, spotting something that has them stunned, until Egesa turns back and drives his scythe-like limb down through the doctor’s shoulder, killing hi instantly. He pulls the limb out in a spray of blood and gore, tapping Gwerrus on the shoulder as he spots me staring at them. Gwerrus slowly turns her eyes away from whatever has her entranced, like she’s afraid it’ll disappear if it leaves her sight, and speaks.

“I can see sunlight…”

I take in a sharp breath, rushing forwards to the intersection and taking a quick peek down the corridor. Sure enough, the hallway ends far sooner than it should, and I can see clouds drifting across a blue sky. Gwerrus and Egesa step past me as I stay frozen, starting to slowly walk towards the impossible sight. None of us have seen the sky since we got here; I’d started to forget what it looked like.

I hesitate for a moment, afraid to take the last few steps towards the escape I’ve dreamed of since I got here. I can feel so many things weighing me down, keeping me here, but I have to take this chance. It’s the only opportunity I’ll ever have for a clean slate, to stop being the woman they made me and start thinking for myself. I uncoil my body, releasing my hold on the poor girl they had me torture. She scrambles away as fast as her legs will carry her, away from the three monsters responsible for her torture. Part of me wants to run after her and beg for forgiveness, but it’s overwhelmed by my desire to feel the sun on my skin for the first time in a lifetime.

I hurry down the corridor, only slowing when I’m standing in-between the two imposing guards. I’m scared, more scared than I’ve ever been, but I feel a little safer with them by my side. They’ve made the same choices, the same _compromises,_ that I have. I’ve looked into their minds as well, taken memories from them and made them my own, but they don’t hold it against me. They understand that we’re all doing what we have to do to survive. There’ll be time for guilt later, once we’re safe.

The sky gets larger and larger and it starts to fill with an enormous lake and the rooves of a city, far bigger than my village. Our part of the facility ends in a crumbling and broken mess, like it’s been sheared in two and dumped somewhere else. More monsters are clambering out of the floors below us, all the people we fought to keep docile and locked up. In the distance I can see a white figure spinning through the air, dodging missiles and shots and punches from flying men.

Below us the subjects are fighting. There are people down there, with strange powers like us but none of the mutations. They’re killing the subjects with merciless efficiency, but our people are fighting back as best they can, even though they lose ten of their number for every enemy they kill. It’s the mindless rage of years in captivity, channelled into anyone and everyone who stands in their path. If any of them spot the three of us, they’ll turn on us as well.

So, we don’t join the battle. Instead we shimmy along broken ledges and ruined corridors, moving until we’re out of the path of the fighting and can sneak off into the city. I’m terrified, but the sun is warm on my face. I can’t remember my name, it’s lost along with so many other memories, but I’m finally free.


	86. Deviant: 13.01

As I step out from under the neon glow, I’m momentarily disconcerted when I’m not immediately surrounded by harsh lights and the cheers of the crowd, baying for blood. Instead there’s nothing but silence and the stars gently twinkling overhead. I should be looking out at the city, but I can’t take my eyes off the tunnel as it slowly shifts and closes behind us. Soon there’ll be nothing left to even hint that the corridor ever existed.

I turn back to Labyrinth as she cranes her head to look up at the curtain wall surrounding the city. All this time I thought she was making her worlds, that she wasn’t all there because building these places took too much out of her mind. But now…

That wasn’t just something that was vaguely familiar to me. Sure, it was duplicated and stretched to match the distance, but I remember that corridor. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. That was Dicko’s fucking ring, his derelict old church, just waiting for the bulldozers to come through and clear it away, so that it could be replaced by a support strut of the Central-South dome, whenever the fuck that project actually becomes more than just the mayor’s favourite empty promise.

Every fucking inch of that shithole is _burned_ into my goddamn brain, and there’s no fucking way Labyrinth could unintentionally recreate it so perfectly. She’s not stuck in her own head; she’s stuck between worlds. Everything she’s ever pulled through has been copied from another damn reality, some mirror image of another world. This is huge stuff, fucking immense, but I don’t know what to do with the information. It’s certainly not the right time to go gabbing to Faultline about it, so I guess I just need to sit on it for now.

It’s fucking world-shattering information, but there’s no real value to it. It doesn’t really matter _where_ Labyrinth goes, all that matters is finding ways to get her to stay here. Besides, I need to keep my eye on the ball. This isn’t the place to be fucking around in my own head.

Labyrinth pauses, looking out into the city. We can’t see much from here, just what was probably once a really cushy part of town; lots of two-story houses surrounded by green trees, more or less identical to every other patch of American middle-class paradise we’ve seen. Identical, that is, save for the damage. It’s not like Brockton Bay, where whole swathes of the city have literally collapsed into the sea. Madison looks abandoned, looted and salvaged by the few dregs that remain while nature creeps in through the ground. Carefully manicured suburbia slowly being reclaimed by nature now that civilisation has turned her back on it.

“Pretty.”

Labyrinth takes us all by surprise; she doesn’t usually speak when she’s like this.

“You think so?” Faultline asks, carefully trying to coax a little more out of the kid.

“Guess you like different architecture, huh?”

Still no response. Thinking back to the stuff Labyrinth’s already brought through, including the decrepit church turned fighting pit, it’s easy to see that her tastes might run somewhere towards old and abandoned places. When it becomes clear that Labyrinth isn’t going to answer, Faultline rubs her hooded head affectionately and turns to Gregor and Shamrock as they step through, Shamrock standing so close to Gregor that she’s practically hugging him, a far cry from her usual near-robotic professionalism.

“All good?” Faultline asks, spotting the look on Shamrock’s face.

“A little much,” the Irishwoman admits, craning her neck as she looks around the ruined city, finding some comfort in the wide-open space. “Knowing how tall the wall is, how much pressure’s bearing down over our heads… I’m a little claustrophobic at the best of times, and that’s worse than the best times.”

“We have some time before we need to pass through again,” Faultline replies. “Maybe Labyrinth can make it wider, shore it up more so you’re more comfortable, for the future.”

Shamrock nods, gratefully. “I hope so. Thank you.”

“We’re looking for any signs of life,” Faultline says, stepping back a little to make it clear these are orders for all of us. “Avoid confrontation if you don’t have backup. We patrol this area in a pinwheel formation. We have four people patrolling, each in a different cardinal direction. Head three blocks out, turn clockwise, travel two more blocks, then zig-zag your way back to the centre. One person always waits with Labyrinth in the middle, so we have a fortified spot to fall back to. We take turns staying with her, so nobody walks too long.”

She takes a moment, looking at each of us in turn as we nod in agreement.

“Flare if there’s any trouble or any find. Everyone has their guns?”

I reach to my thigh, brushing my hand against the red flare gun in its holster that’s been hastily strapped to my leg, along with four spare flares. There’s a communications blackout in the city, with PRT machines making satellite, radio or any other form of communication absolutely impossible. A digital wall strong enough to match the physical one.

“Gregor, Shamrock and Spitfire babysit during the first patrol, don’t need anyone to backtrack, obviously. Move out.”

We split up, each forging our own path into the city. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Faultline choses to go straight ahead. Part of me wants to tell her that she should really have one of the others with her, what with her missing arm, but I don’t think she’d listen. Besides, we all have our own ways of dealing with loss. It just so happens that the boss prefers to double down.

As for me I swing left, pacing down the middle of the road like… well, like a giant monster loose in what was probably once a respectable middle-class neighbourhood. I can see the occasional evidence of human life – doors that have been battered down, a couple of suspicious bloodstains on the pavement, a makeshift camp in someone’s living room that looks like it was abandoned in a hurry – but no actual people, and it’s the people we’re interested in. Not much is known about what exactly happened here, the powers that be do their best to limit any and all information about Simurgh attacks, but we’ve picked up a bit through pilfered PRT records, and it doesn’t paint a pretty picture.

When the Simurgh hit this place, she kicked off some sort of machine that opened up some sort of portal. Supposedly, a few buildings got pulled through from other earths. Earth Aleph certainly went into a bit of a blind panic over chunks of _their_ Madison that went missing. Supposedly it almost caused them to cut ties with their sister world. More importantly, some of the chunks started disgorging monstrous parahumans. That’s all the information we have through official channels, but our existing knowledge of Cauldron’s activities paints a much clearer picture.

Doctor Foster got asked to come here by Christof, to join the team of psychologists monitoring the screening of people trying to make their way out of the containment zone. He turned the job down, but others went in his place. Monstrous parahumans, loose in an American city, and the power brokers send a team of psychologists to monitor people on their way out. It doesn’t take a genius to tell that these ‘monsters’ might not be as violent and uncontrollable as they might seem.

This city is full of Case-53s, ones like Shamrock who remember what happened to them. Maybe even Cauldron staff too, if the psychologists weren’t tasked with ensuring they made it through the screening process and out of the city. This whole place might well be a treasure trove of information, kept safe from the eyes of the PRT by their own damn containment.

More signs of life, but still nothing concrete. Some graffiti warning, in incredibly broken English, about something called the ‘devourer,’ about how it was seen moving in this area. There’s a date attached, the seventh of May. Forty-three days ago. I find a body in a garage. He’s long dead, his corpse desiccated. What worries me is that it looks like he was eaten, and looters have rummaged through his bags. His clothes, what scraps I can see, look like civilian wear modified to be more practical, with handbags strapped to his belt and his backpack as extra pouches.

At the three block limit I turn clockwise, before zigzagging back carefully through the streets, splitting my focus between the ground and the sky just in case one of the others sends up a flare. They don’t, and soon I’m back where we started, with the others waiting for us. I’m not the last to arrive, that honour goes to our fearless leader.

“Anything?” she asks, the moment she’s back in earshot.

“Dead body in a garage, looked like it’d been eaten. Ominous graffiti too.”

“Those… spine babies, was it?”

“Nah. Something called a Devourer. Couldn’t tell you more; the graffiti was basically unreadable.”

“Let’s move. We move up six blocks, then do another patrol.” Faultline pauses, the way she does when she’s thinking about something heavy. “And, until we’re out of here, we walk with out weapons at the ready, flare guns in hand.”

That’s another difference with this job. Everyone who can reasonably be expected to use a gun is carrying one (which basically means everyone except for Labyrinth and muggins here). We’re not taking any chances, and every one knows that the rules and norms of Cape society are meaningless here.

We split up again once we’ve stopped. Spitfire offers to take my spot, but I turn her down. There’s a church I’ve been eyeing in the distance. Most churches in this country are pretty sad affairs, without stone or spires, but every now and then there’ll be one that understands that churches are supposed to loom over the neighbourhood, a visible tell of the invasive reach of the Bitch of Rome. I set off on my route, moving carefully but quickly as I approach the church. The side of the spire is smooth and depressingly modern, but it’s nothing I can’t dig my claws into. I haul myself up to the top, clinging onto the cross as I get a good look at the city.

It’s funny. I still kind of expected it to look like Brockton Bay. There’s damage, that much is true, but it’s damage of an entirely different sort. No, from up here Madison looks downright idyllic. So long as you ignore the curtain wall and the other damage. There’s no light, but we picked tonight because there’s almost a full moon up in the sky, so we can see well enough. Certainly, enough to clearly see the immense curtain walls surrounding the city.

These… Endbringers aren’t something I’ve really thought much about. We weren’t there when Leviathan hit the bay, and I’ve found myself thinking about his attack in much the same way as a hurricane. The problem is that they’re so much more than that.

I saw the glittering spires of New York, replacements for all the buildings lost when Behemoth hit there. In many ways, he’s the simplest of the three. He’s force. Pure, unstoppable force. He killed hundreds of capes before he was driven back, fifty percent of the responding force. Less present in this cape-focused culture is the two hundred and fifty thousand civilians he killed, caught up in events far beyond their control.

Leviathan is the same in some ways, but different in many others. New York bounced back, with investments and time and good honest hope, but it’ll take a miracle to save Brockton Bay from economic collapse. Leviathan guts economies, cripples whole nations with long term crises. He’s flashy, sure, and Newfoundland and Kyushu now rest at the bottom of the sea thanks to his actions, but the real threat he poses is in the long term. Without Levitahan, there would have been no Merchant expansion. No Slaughterhouse Nine traumatising Elle.

But the Simurgh… She’s a whole different sort of monster. She skips most of the visible destruction and goes straight for the people in the city. She twists people into monsters, manipulates events so that nobody can be entirely sure who’s safe. They call her the Hopekiller, because she’s not a threat that can be held back by force, or fixed by reconstruction efforts. All you can do is take the areas she’s affected and seal them away behind curtain walls or massive domes, never to be seen again.

She worms her way into your mind, twisting you till she’s turned you into a living weapon. It’s the worst fears of every technophile and luddite made real, every paranoid rambling about how Affinity is a plot to mind control the world and bend them to the will of the New World Order, or whatever the nutjob conspiracy of the day is.

There’s not much damage to Madison, but the Simurgh’s presence still hangs over the city like a cloud, even two years down the line. Looking out across the city I can see occasional pinpricks of light, small fires hinting that somehow, somewhere, people still live in this place. I can see other tings too, out of place buildings or terrain. Some have fallen on their side, some are spilled out across roads or partially smashed into other structures. Others are just there, noticeable only because of the way they just don’t fit into the area they landed in. Buildings pulled from other worlds; the weapons she used to sow chaos.

One in particular draws my eye. It’s in the middle of a whole cluster of buildings close to the wall, probably the State university that got caught here when everything went to shit. Most of the other buildings are obviously commercial or apartment blocks, but this one isn’t. For starters, it doesn’t have any windows at all. It’s a solid concrete block, sheared off at one side from where it was ripped free from wherever it came from. I can’t make out much of it in this light, but the Case-53s in this city had to come from _somewhere,_ and that building looks like a pretty decent candidate.

And then I hear a faint crack a few blocks away, and I see a red flare steadily climbing into the sky, hanging in the air and casting its glow across the ground. That’s Newter’s position. I drop off the edge of the spire, digging my tendrils into the surface and letting my momentum carry me down onto the roof of the church. I sprint across it, moving from rooftop to rooftop as much as possible so that I don’t lose sight of the flare. I never realised just how much we rely on our radios until right now, when I’ve got no idea if his flare is good or bad. Certainly, he hasn’t sent up another one.

Once I’m almost directly underneath it and there’s no obvious sounds of fighting I slow my pace, clambering up onto the roof of a brick building and crawling slowly forwards, making as little noise as possible until I’m peering over the lip of the roof. Newter’s down there, his hands and tail held above his head, the flare gun discarded on the ground by his feet. There are five people in front of him, civilian survivors by the looks of things. Four of them are armed with spears made from broom handles and kitchen knives, while the fifth is carrying a fairly professional looking bow. No threat to us, of course.

“These are my friends,” Newter says, as Faultline and Labyrinth approach. “More will be coming shortly. We’re not here to hurt anyone.”

He’s being far more diplomatic than usual, a wise policy when dealing with what might be potentially a band of insane brainwashed lunatics.

“Why are you here? You’re insane, coming to a place like this. You know what the Simurgh does.”

The leader of the five, if they even have a leader, looks just as young as the rest of them. This was a big university town; it’s possible that’s where they were before their world ended.

“We do,” Faultline replies, her tone as level and calm as always. “But we have a friend, she’s got a bit of precognitive talent. Enough that it should clear us of any schemes the Simurgh is pulling.”

That gets their attention. Truth be told, I’m not sure how much protection Shamrock can really offer us. I mean, it might work. I know about as much about powers as the next interdimensional castaway. But it strikes me as a bit of a placebo, a white lie we’ve all told ourselves so we don’t have to acknowledge the truth. We’re all wondering if we’re dancing to the tune of a monster, even if we’ll never acknowledge it outside of our own heads, but we seem to have accepted that possibility as a price worth paying for answers, for dragging Cauldron into the cold light of day.

“We’re looking for answers,” Faultline cuts through their shock. “Information, either about or _from_ the monsters who came through that portal the Simurgh made. Give us something to work with, we’ll show you how to leave.”

It’s a dangerous game we’re playing, gambling on our impression of what the Simugh’s target here was. Everyone in this city is at least peripherally aware of Cauldron’s activities, even if they don’t know it was Cauldron. Hopefully that means the only damage they do will be to Cauldron.

“Assuming we want to,” one of the five replies, confusing me a little. Poor bastard must have internalised the idea that he’s a threat to the world just by existing.

“Assuming you want to. I’m sure we could come to another deal.”

“Why do you want to talk to the monsters?” the woman with a bow asks. She looks ever so slightly more professional than the rest of them, with camouflage paint over her face and some sort of salvaged body armour. Perhaps she was a more recent addition to an already established group. Looking closer, something looks off about her body armour. It’s pure white, and it looks like there used to be a logo of some kind on it, but she’s ripped it off.

I can see Gregor and Shamrock coming round the corner, and how four of the locals flinch back. The bow woman just stares intently. The spears are scared, scared enough that they might do something stupid. I vault over the edge of the roof and lower myself down to stand behind Faultline, slowly enough to give them a good look at what they’d be fucking with, and so they don’t panic at a fast movement.

“These guys are my friends, and they’re my employees. We want answers about why this happened to them. Once we have those answers, we decide where we go from there. If nothing else, it’s valuable info.”

“You’re on _their_ side?” a man with a spear asks, holding the tip of the useless weapon out in front of him like it’ll do him any good at all. The bow woman is looking at me now, but it’s a curious look. No fear, but maybe an undercurrent of guilt? A Cauldron security guard, who ripped the badge off her armour?

“Yes,” Faultline replies impassively. “But I could be on yours too.”

The bow woman steps away from her friends, or maybe just allies of convenience.

“You have a way out?”

“Yes.”

“And you just let us go? There’s no catch?”

“No catch.”

“I…” she glances around, hesitant and uncertain. Right now she’s perfectly placed between her group and ours, like she doesn’t belong in either world.

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“You are one of us,” Gregor states, as the woman freezes in place.

“Maddie?” one of the others asks, shocked disbelief clear on his face. Already I can see the gears turning in their heads, see them stop thinking of her as a friend and start thinking of her as just another monster.

“How did you know?” ‘Maddie’ asks, fear clear on her face. It can’t be easy, being a monster hiding among humans, keeping the secret for so long.

“I know this feeling, of being lost. Of being very alone and not knowing who can be trusted,” Gregor replies, his voice soft. Faultline’s standing back. She knows she’s not the best option to get through to her.

“How can I believe you?”

“Because we’ve been where you’ve been,” Shamrock interjects, pulling back the collar of the sleeveless green t-shirt she’s been wearing to deal with the heat, revealing the Cauldron brand on her collarbone. “These two don’t remember, they had their memories taken. But I didn’t. I remember what it was like in there. And I get why you’re afraid.”

“You were in there?” Maddie asks, disbelief flashing in her eyes before it fades.

Shamrock nods. “One moment, I was going to bed in my temple-school. In another, I was in a cell. A cot, a metal sink, a metal toilet. Three concrete walls, a concrete floor and ceiling, and a window of thick plexiglass with a drawer. You might know the kind of cell I’m describing.”

She’s told us this before, of course, but it wasn’t easy for her. Saying it in front of a stranger has to be even harder.

“They drugged me, then they waited until I started showing signs that something happened to me. It took them a while to figure out, because my power was subtle. When they had an idea of what I could do, they gave me a coin. I had to flip it when the doctor came. If it came up heads, I got to eat, I got fresh clothes, a shower. If it didn’t, I got nothing. I realized I was supposed to control it. Decide the result of the toss. When I got good at it, they gave me two coins, and both had to come up heads.”

“How long were you there?” Maddie asks, engrossed in the story. I imagine her story is much the same.

“I don’t know. But by the time I saw the chance to escape, I had to roll twelve dice and each one had to come up with a six. And if it didn’t, if I got more than a few wrong, they found ways to punish me.”

Gregor rests his hands on Shamrock’s shoulder as she shrinks into herself. She’s done well, talking about that. I know it’s not easy to open up about these things; I still haven’t told anyone exactly _what_ happened on my last night on my Earth.

“They made me use my power.” Maddie’s voice is quiet, but it carries. Her former friends are edging even further back, and I don’t think they’ll be coming with us. “I… I think I was one of the people they used to punish the ones who failed their tests,” Maddie said.

“Christ,” one of the men says. “And the freak has been with us for a week?”

Maddie turns back to glare at him, and I bare my teeth at them.

“If it means anything,” Shamrock says, “I forgive you. You didn’t decide to punish anyone. We did what they made us do.”

Maddie flinches like she’s been struck. It seems she was a guard, of sorts. There’s no telling how many people she’s hurt on their orders, and it has to be eating away at her. I don’t know how I’d cope with that sort of guilt hanging over my head.

“Come with us,” Faultline says, sensing a moment to re-join the conversation. I keep quiet; I’ve never been good at this sort of thing. “You don’t have to stay with us, but we want to hear what you have to say.”

“I’m a predator,” Maddie says in a rushed voice, like she’s admitting a dark secret. “Not because I want to be. You don’t want me to be near you.”

“We’re all predators,” I speak, as softly as I can so as not to startle her. “We’ve all got parts of our past we need to deal with, and it’s not the sort of thing you can deal with alone. I tried, and it just made everything worse.”

Maddie looks me in the eye, a moment of silent understanding, then nods, turning to Shamrock. “When… when they tested you, did they give you a name?”

“They gave me a number at first. I couldn’t use my real name or they’d punish me. When I passed a year of testing, they let me pick a codename. I picked Shamrock.”

“I wouldn’t pick,” Maddie replies, smiling a little in spite of everything. “So they gave me one. Matryoshka. I… I don’t deserve my old name. So call me by that one.”

It’s a familiar enough sentiment. There was a time when I identified much more with Khanivore than with Sonnie. Maybe we’ll be able to coax her out of her shell but, then again, we still don’t know Shamrock’s real name. I don’t think even Gregor knows, and if he does then he’s not telling.

“Layered doll,” Faultline muses as Matryoshka nods in acknowledgement. “Let’s go. We’ll leave the quarantine area, get you some proper food while we talk. If need be, we’ll come back and see if we can find more people. If you wanted to guide us for a return trip, maybe direct us to others, I could pay you. Get you on your feet in the outside world.”

Part of me wants to pull Faultline aside and tell her about eh building I saw, but I know that even mentioning that place would probably open up a whole host of difficult memories for Matryoshka. Better that we get her out now, get her comfortable, and try and see if she feels up to bringing us there tomorrow night. What’s the point of all this, if not to help the people like Matryoshka, and the countless others who are still in Cauldron’s hands?

Besides, it’s a building. It’s not going anywhere.


	87. Deviant: 13.02

Matryoshka’s old group doesn’t come with us. A combination of unease, distrust and, to be perfectly honest, mutual _dislike_ has them slinking off into the city, abandoning the woman they once trusted. It’s been a while since I’ve seen someone look at me like they did. Last time was probably during the ABB insurgency, back when we were ploughing through mooks like a scythe through a field of wheat. But I can understand that, I can even _sympathise_ a little. What I can’t accept is that they were giving Matryoshka the same look, and yet half an hour ago they considered her a friend.

Matryoshka herself keeps flashing uneasy glances back into the city as we get closer and closer to the wall, like something’s going to leap out of the darkness and drag her back in. I can’t exactly say I blame her for her nervousness; if I were in her position I’d probably be wondering if this was really happening, or if it was just some fucked-up hallucination or fever dream. After so long stuck in a place like this, I wouldn’t blame her if she’d become convinced that the world ended at these walls.

When Faultline makes a hole and Labyrinth widens it into that same familiar corridor, Maddie gets this strange look on her face, like the world’s crumbling underneath her feet. She hesitates at the threshold, but eventually steps forwards with a determined look in her eyes. We hang behind her, letting her take the lead just behind the end of the tunnel, where Labyrinth is twisting reinforced concrete into pillars, tiles and ultraviolet lights. She doesn’t look back. Not even a glance.

There’s no real way to judge how far we’ve gone in the tunnel; Labyrinth’s power only extends so far when we’re moving, so it’s more like we’re walking in a bubble of corridor, just slow enough for her power to keep pace. It means there’s no real warning that we’re getting close to the exit, just the wall opening up ahead of us to reveal the flat expanse of cleared land, ninety metres deep, surrounding the wall. We cross it at a sprint, moving towards the subdued glow of what’s left of the rest of Madison.

Matryoshka might not be looking back, but I take a moment to glance up at the wall, looming a hundred metres tall over all of us. I’ve seen bigger buildings, arcologies and megaprojects that dwarf this one, but none of them have quite the same presence as this simple wall. Frankly, the sooner we can scrape this place clean of information, the better.

Our hotel is close to the quarantine wall, but not enough to be noticeably suspicious. Once it was probably pretty swish, but the days of this city drawing in visiting professors or STEM magnates are long gone. It’s faded and tired, barely clinging on to life. The sort of place that’d be willing to accept a ludicrous amount of money from some shady characters with no questions asked or answered. Of course, we might have casually let slip a few misleading titbits near the owners, letting them think we’re using this place to lay low while we plan for a job in Chicago.

That little ruse is why we wait a whole hour in an abandoned building as Newter and Shamrock painstakingly scout their way around the hotel, looking for anyone who so much as sneezes in a vaguely suspicious manner. It’s a slow process, but we’re not taking any chances. The usual response to people who’ve managed to get out of a Simurgh containment zone is to blow up whatever building they’re in, then to drag in anyone who did so much as pass them on the street for ‘screening.’ The sort of screening that ends with a bullet in the head or being dumped in the nearest containment zone, depending on which rumours you choose to believe.

Once we get the all clear from our scouts we move up to the side of the hotel and get Labyrinth to build us a stairway back up to our rooms on the second floor, turning the window into a door. The first thing we do when everything’s back to normal is close up the curtains, keeping light-bleed to an absolute minimum. Matryoshka seems enthralled by the electric lights, but eventually she spots an armchair in the corner of the room and practically collapses into it, letting out a long breath as she digs her hands into the soft arms. Her eyes are closed, and there’s a contented smile on her face. For the first time in two years there’s no need for her to worry about predators in the night, or her companions finding out what she really is.

“How are you holding up?” Faultline asks her, once it seems like she can’t sink any deeper into the worn armchair.

“It didn’t feel real until now. Hiding in buildings, sneaking through streets; I am used to those things. But this? This feels real.”

“I’m glad to hear it. If you want to use the shower then go ahead. You can borrow my towel, and I’ve got some spare clothes.”

After what looked like some pretty fierce internal debate, Maddie extracts herself from the armchair. Pretty soon I hear the sound of running water, closely followed by what sounded like ecstatic Russian swearing as she found the hot water. I smile, pacing across the room to my tank. Getting it in here was pretty easy with Labyrinth’s power helping out, and it means we don’t need to keep our suspicious lorry anywhere near our hideout. After a while, I decide not to take the chance to freshen up for a few hours. Better that we’re all present for this.

After an understandably long shower Matryoshka emerges, wearing the boss’s spare chinos and shirt. She’s washed the camouflage paint off her face and her hair is hanging loose, rather than tied back in a practical bun. The first thing she does is slump back down in the armchair, wiggling her toes with a contented smile on her face. She looks, in short, like someone who’s relaxing for the first time in a long time.

“You hungry?” I ask, more for appearances sake than anything else. I’m already moving towards the minibar when she says yes, pulling out a couple of the ready meals we’ve been keeping in there. I pierce the film with my claws and toss them in the microwave, only stabbing the buttons a bit as I turn the machine on.

“So who are you people?” Matryoshka asks. “What do you do when you aren’t looking for… people like me?”

“We’re mercenaries,” Faultline replies, pulling off her mask in a gesture of trust, and because it’s hot as fuck outside. She takes off her heavy belt, with its knives and pistol, and sets it on the table, moving into her room to change into her civvies.

“Not mercenaries in the normal way,” I clarify. “We act a little military, but we’re not soldiers. We’re more like criminals for hire, I suppose.”

“Criminals?” She looks a little disappointed for a moment, before it’s smothered back beneath her relief. Maybe she was expecting a band of heroic freedom fighters?

“Not much room in the world for people like us, luv. We’re all people who fell through the cracks, one way or another, and we do what we have to do to get by in life. Frankly, we’re pretty fucking good at it.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cause offence. It just took me by surprise.”

The microwave pings.

“No worries, luv. Now, get some grub in your belly. It’s not the best, but a hot meal is a hot meal.”

I put the two dishes on a plate and peel off the film, sticking a fork in one of them and handing it over to her. It’s just whatever we had on hand, in this case macaroni cheese and spaghetti bolognaise, but she takes her time with it, savouring each bite. At least, until she loses her self-control and starts to wolf it down.

“This is amazing! I can’t remember the last time I ate something that didn’t come from a can!”

Newter throws himself over the sofa, as the others all start to sit down or just generally hover. He switches on the TV, prompting another expletive from Maddie, somewhat muffled by a mouthful of pasta.

“I’ve never seen a working one before! Well, not in person.”

“So, where are you on the scale?” Newter asks, flicking through the meager channels available at four in the morning before giving up and looking pointedly at the DVDs until Emily gets up and puts one in.

“The scale?”

“Yeah. Shamrock had TV, but no internet, we’ve got internet and TV, and Sonnie had internet, TV and a whole bunch of other stuff, some of which I’m convinced she made up just to mess with me.”

“I see. We had neither television nor internet.”

“But you know what they are?” Faultline asks, stepping out of the room in her civvies.

“Yes,” she replies, hesitantly. “It’s… an effect of my powers.”

“What a-” Matryoshka cuts the boss off.

“Please! I don’t want to say right now. I’m worried you’d turn on me, like…”

“We don’t judge,” I interject, “but we don’t pry either. We’re not going to interrogate you, certainly not while you’re fresh out of prison. Besides,” I make my tone a little lighter, “no TV, no internet, not even any super-cool other stuff? I’m kind of interested to hear more.”

She smiles, a gesture full of gratitude. She’s not comfortable talking about Cauldron, and I can’t say I blame her. Matryoshka will open up in her own time, just like Shamrock.

“Fair enough. I suppose I owe you that much, but I expect a story in return.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Once you get me going, there ain’t much that can get me to stop.”

“More’s the pity,” Spitfire mutters good-naturedly.

“I lived in a beautiful village,” she starts to speak between mouthfuls of food, “It was between the mountains and the steppes, with magnificent views when the weather was clear enough. My father worked as a… lumberjack, I think is the right word. Most of the men there worked as lumberjacks, though their ancestors were hunters and trappers. It was… nice. Cold, sometimes cruel, but I miss it.”

“It sounds beautiful,” I reply.

“It was. I think I miss the emptiness of it. We were surrounded by hundreds of miles of wilderness, far from civilisation. Being stuck in that city, surrounded by walls with no horizon whatsoever, it was maddening.”

“There is something appealing about the empty places of the world,” Gregor rumbles, more to himself than to any of us. “The sea is especially beautiful, though I do not know if I find it that way because of some last relic of the person I can no longer remember, or because it is simply beautiful in its own right.”

“So, when you said you didn’t remember…”

Matryoshka mutters, her eyes looking between Newter, Gregor and me in confusion.

“The people that made you…” I pause, trying to find the right words, “what you are, they like to let others loose as well. They sell powers to people, but that means they need to test their formulae on someone. Best we can tell, they use the… failed subjects as an extra option, a nemesis the actual clients can fight. So they wipe the memories of the subject and dump them here, probably with a few psychological triggers to nudge them in the right direction.”

Faultline opens the door to the suites, spotting something and pulling it in with her foot.

Matryoshka’s eyes are wide.

“Shamrock was trained up as an enforcer for Cauldron,” I continue, nodding to the Irishwoman, “but she escaped. That’s why she remembers. As for me, well I’m still not sure what they wanted with me, but I’m pretty sure they fucked up somewhere. The state I was in when they nabbed me, they probably confused me for a wild animal.”

Faultline pulls Shamrock aside, saying that she needs to go downstairs and make a quick phone call. Spitfire looks up at me from the sofa as the two of them leave the room.

“You’ve never told us what happened.”

“No, I…” I what? I don’t want them to know? Don’t want them to think less of me? If anyone deserves to know, it’s them.

“Fuck. Alright, I guess you’ve earned that much.” I turn to look at Matryoshka. She’s the only one who hasn’t heard the first part of this story.

“So I wasn’t made by Cauldron. I don’t have powers. This body was made by a group of friends I used to work for, so that it could be controlled in pit fights, that sort of thing. I fucked up, ended up almost dead, and the only thing they could do to save me was to splice my brain into this body. But we still needed the body to fight, right? We needed the prize money to put food on the table. So, I ended up going into the ring anyway, fight after fight after fight.”

The others are watching intently. I know they noticed me glossing over just how I ended up in this body, but there’s some things I’m not prepared to say, even now.

“We got pretty fucking good at it. I never lost a match, which is good because the matches only ended when one of the Beasties died. I was risking death every time I stepped into that pit, but I didn’t care. I was a fucking adrenaline junkie, or maybe it was just the worlds most drawn-out suicide attempt. Either way, before my last match, the guy who owned the pit came up to us and offered me a lot of money to take a dive.”

“Would you have taken it,” Spitfire asks, “if you weren’t risking your life?”

“Fuck no,” I respond, with a little more force than I was expecting. “We were pros. We’d been there at the start of the sport, back when it was just modified Dobermans in abandoned warehouses, and there was no way we’d let a shit like Dicko fuck over the whole sport with rigged bouts.”

“Given that you’re still here,” Gregor rumbles, “I assume you won?”

“Yeah,” I flash him a fierce grin. “It was close, that’s for damn sure, but I won. Dicko took exception to that, had his girl lure me away with a pretty gold dress, then had her stab me right through where my brain used to be.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” Newter interrupts. “Was she having sex with…” words fail hum, but he gestures towards me, taking in all the sharp edges and… well, tentacles.

I burst out laughing.

“Fuck no. One of our people was a surgeon, and she was able to turn my old body into a sort of still-alive meat puppet. I controlled it in the same way I’m controlling this voicebox. Anyway, Jessica ‘kills’ me and her boss comes in for a good gloat. I, uh… I killed both of them, and the last thing I remember before waking up in Philadelphia is standing over that rat bastard’s body, probably looking exactly like a wild animal that’s slipped her leash.”

Everyone’s quiet at that, even Matryoshka is picking at her food awkwardly. Spitfire’s looking right into my eyes, hesitantly opening her mouth like she’s trying to figure out what to say.

“Sonnie, I-”

She doesn’t get the chance to continue, as the door to our suite is kicked in. A woman steps through, dressed in a tailored suit and a fucking fedora, and immediately starts striding forwards. Newter leaps up from the sofa, only for the woman to grab him by the arm and _twist_ it until it cracks. She throws Newter back, sending him smashing through the glass coffee table, into the flatscreen TV. She steps forwards, slow and unhurried, and stamps down on Newter’s leg and his tail until those break too.

She turns to Emily, who panics, spewing a jet of flame across the room. The woman ducks, and the scorching hot napalm coats Gregor’s head and upper body, which immediately catches fire. Gregor, silent even through the pain, flinches back, the adhesive aimed at the woman instead missing and catching Emily square in her face. Gregor immediately starts coating himself with fire retardant foam while the woman takes her hat off her head and slams it into Emily’s face, sending adhesive spilling out from underneath it.

Five seconds have passed.

I’m up, I’m panicking, but I can’t risk stepping forwards. There are too many bodies on the floor; I’d crush them. I’ve never felt more useless.

Matryoshka leaps to her feat, throwing her meal aside even as her body seems to split and uncurl itself into a mass of ribbons, a mass that leaps towards the woman. She just reaches down, picks up one Faultline’s discarded belt and draws one of her knives, somehow driving it through five different ribbons and pinning them to the wall. The ribbins curl around the woman for the slightest moment, the pinned ones twitching impotently, but nothing happens. The woman just scoops them up into bundles and pins them to the wall with more of the boss’s knives.

That’s when it hits me. She’s moving fast, but not inhumanly so. But she’s efficient, more than anyone can ever hope to be. She doesn’t make a single wasted movement, doesn’t hesitate even when I’m paralysed by fear. She’s moving as fast as a human can physically move, when they’re not held back by thoughts or doubts, and it’s turned her into a monster.

She steps towards Elle, and that’s finally enough to shock me into action. I pounce forwards, hindered a little as I try to avoid crushing Gregor, Emily or Newter. The woman pulls Faultline’s gun from her belt, but I’m already swinging at her, claws extended and aimed at gutting her. It forces her back, even as she fires four shots in quick succession, the bullets skittering off my armour or missing me entirely. I move in for a strike with the other hand, only for her to somehow duck and slide around my strike.

Before I know what’s happening, the barrel of a gun is pressed against my left eyeball. She fires her last four bullets, pulping my eye and sending shots ricocheting through my body, tearing through muscles and shearing through vital nervous systems. I can’t feel pain, not really, but this is as close as I’m ever going to get. The feedback of so much nerves failing at once overloads my mind, and I black out, falling to the ground.

I wake up, probably just a few seconds later. But a few seconds can make all the difference in the world. I spring to my feet, scanning around the room even as my neck twitches and groans in protest. Shamrock’s hear, blood covering the front of her outfit and the fingers of her right hand bent back the wrong way. She’s leaning over Spitfire, who’s being suffocated by the hat glued to her face. Shamrock has a knife in her other hand, her grip weak, and is in the process of giving Emily a tracheotomy. Gregor is lying on his back, his chest rising and falling in silent agony. His skin, what little of it I can see beneath the foam he’s coated himself with, is burnt and blistering. Labyrinth is screaming, but I can’t see anything visibly wrong with her.

Then my eyes pass over Newter, lying on the ground and trying not to move his broken limbs, and settle on my tank. The shots she fired, the first four… I thought she’d fucking _missed_ , but there they are. Bullet holes in the machinery. I pace forwards, stepping gingerly around the wounded, and carefully peel back the outer casing of the machinery. The insides are shot through, whatever bioelectronic organism Blasto was using to regulate it torn to shreds by the bullets that ricocheted through it.

Irreparable.

My mouth drops, and I dig my claws into the die of the machine as I haul myself up to my full height. Something in my left leg twitches and the whole limb buckles beneath me, sending me falling back to the floor. I panic, hurriedly trying to move muscles and limbs to see if they still work. What I find is horrifying.

Partial paralysis, all down my left side. I can move on all fours comfortably enough, albeit with a noticeable limp, but if I try to stand up the system fails, and I collapse back to the ground. If I could cry, I would. I’m struck by a sudden urge to drive my claws into Blasto’s machine, to tear it to shreds for daring to fail me. Instead I just curl up at its base, close my eyes and try not to think.

What gets me to stand up again is that thought that the others need me, that if there’s anything I can do to help them then I should be doing it.

We’ve lost. It doesn’t take a genus to figure out who sent that woman, to figure out why she chose to tackle us without weapons or armour, why she used us against each other. The message is clear; they’re so far out of our league that we’re not even worth killing.

All we can do now is forget them and focus on patching up our wounds, grateful, at least, that we still have each other.


	88. Deviant: 13.03

An uneasy silence has settled across the room, broken by pained breathing or the occasional bout of quiet whimpering. I pace over the broken glass of the coffee table, wincing at every twinge from my broken body, and look up at Faultline. She’s sitting on the sofa, not moving a muscle, just looking out across the hotel room. I brush aside the broken glass and curl up at her feet, joining her in looking out over the scene.

There are strangers in our suite, four women and two men dressed in unobtrusive clothes, slowly patching everyone back together again. People like us can’t go to hospitals, but one of the benefits of being mercenaries is that we can often just pay whoever the local power is for access to their own medics. In this case, these people came from a Milwaukee-based syndicate that the Crew worked for well before I joined. We’ve been keeping them in the area on retainer, just in case the worst happens, and it looks like that forethought has paid off.

I look away from the rest of the Crew, truth be told I can’t stand to look at them for long at the moment, and tilt my head to the side so that I can see Faultline with my right eye. I thought Turbroaptor’s quad-eye set up was a waste of biomass, but I’m starting to see the sense in it. Of course, the medics can’t help me any. For starters, they’d just be fumbling around blind with my anatomy. Perhaps more importantly, even through I know the bullet fragments are still in me, I don’t know _where._ No, it looks like I’ll just need to trust my natural antibiotics until we can find an X-ray or something.

Of course, that won’t solve the _larger_ problem. I glance briefly over to the wrecked remains of my tank, before turning back to Faultline.

She notices me looking at her, blinking a little like I’ve just jolted her back to consciousness. She must have been miles away.

“We can’t beat them,” she says, more to herself than to me. I sigh, closing my eye for a moment before opening it again to force her to meet my gaze.

“Before we moved on the Merchants… Fuck, it feels like months ago but it’s only been twenty-odd days. Anyway, before we moved on the Merchants you asked me what I’d be prepared to give, to find Cauldron. I told you there was stuff here I’d rather not lose.”

She flinches, like she’s expecting me to somehow blame her for the defeat. All her confidence has fled her and, without her mask, she looks so miserably _human._ So unlike the unshakable force of nature she’s been for as long as I’ve known her.

“These people… the Crew. They’re the best fucking thing to happen to me in a long time. If you hadn’t found me, I’d be dead. Doesn’t matter if I’d rotted away in Philadelphia, if I’d picked a fight with the wrong Cape and been splattered against the wall because I had no fucking idea how this world works, or even if I’d never left my world, if I’d died for sport in some nowhere arena for a few thousand Euros. You saved me.”

“I understand,” she says, her voice still distant.

“No, you really fucking don’t. It doesn’t matter if I’d died to a Cape, a Beastie or because this body failed, the reason would be the same. I didn’t want to live. The prize money, the love of the crowd, the groupies who’d do anything for a bit of attention, I never really cared about any of them. I was just going through the motions of life, without ever actually living. I wanted to die, Melanie, even if I never admitted it, even to myself. I just didn’t have the strength to do it myself.”

“Sonnie…” Melanie says, her voice filled with naked pity, enough to drag her out of her funk.

“And then I ended up here, with you, and suddenly I’m surrounded by new faces, people who haven’t either already given me up for dead and moved on or who’re so full of guilt that they’re just putting on a brave face and enabling me however they can. I could open up to you, in ways that I never opened up to them.”

I clench my jaw, even though I don’t use it to speak. Some tells show through, regardless of my inhumanity.

“You didn’t just save my life, you helped me realise it was worth saving. Everyone here – you, Gregor, Newter, Emily and Elle – gave me something to care about beyond the next fight, people who didn’t just remind me of my old guilt and failures. You all helped me see the faults of the person I used to be, and helped me build myself back up. Nothing’s worth losing what we have, Melanie. Not for all the answers in the world.”

She sighs, leaning back on the couch for a moment, rubbing her temples as she screws her eyes shut. After a while she leans forwards again, resting her head in her hand.

“You’re right. It just… it hurts. She tore us apart so _effortlessly._ ”

“That’s just the way of the world, boss. The harder you try to improve yourself, the harder people try to keep you down. So you try to get by on the corners of society, in your own little kingdom, only to either end up muscled out by bigger players or becoming one of those players yourself. But there’s always a bigger fish.”

“If you want a picture of the future,” Melanie muses to herself, “imagine a boot stamping on a human face – for ever…”

“That a quote?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just my worldview collapsing,” she sighs, before shaking her head.

“That Cape… Shamrock told me she wasn’t using any powers, but…”

“She’s a Cape, boss,” I confirm. “It’s in how she moves. Everyone delays a little, no matter the situation, but she didn’t. Every move she made was perfect, but that’s impossible.”

“Impossible without powers, you mean.” Faultline’s brow furrows a little. “Perfection. As powers go, it’s up there. But it’s more than that. She injured you and Newter in ways that’ll take you off the field for weeks, force us to change our schedule to care for you. A second purpose, behind the defeat. But…”

She pauses for a second, glancing around the room at our wounded comrades.

“There’s a third purpose,” she continues after a moment. “Newter loves to move, so she breaks an arm, a leg and his tail. Spitfire is terrified she’ll unintentionally hurt someone with her power, so she makes her hurt Gregor, by accident, even. Labyrinth’s power is her armour, armour that was unable to defend her here. The defeat itself is a denial of the answers Gregor’s looking for, and you…”

“And I’ve been trying to grow as a person, to become something more than a mindless beast,” I catch on to what she’s saying, in all it’s horror, “so she forces me to walk on all fours.”

Faultline nods, her lips pursed.

“This is more than a thug breaking someone’s leg to warn them off from their employer. Breaking our bodies wasn’t the goal, it was just the means; she came here to break our spirit. If only knowing it could somehow negate its effects…”

“And you?”

She pauses, and for a moment I think she’s not going to talk.

“I don’t like to let my powers define me. I push myself to overcome any obstacle in spite of my weaknesses. But this is something I can’t beat, at all. It’s a reminder that there will always be powers that make a mockery of mine. There’ll always be a boot.”

She scowls.

“There’s more. I care about you, all of you. I have a _duty of care_ towards you. She broke your bodies, but left me intact. You were up here being torn apart, and I had no idea until I heard the gunshots. _I couldn’t protect you._ ”

For a moment I want to reassure her that she couldn’t have done anything even if I had heard, but that’s not what she wants to hear right now. Better to turn her mind onto more technical thoughts.

“So not just perfection in her movements, but perfection in her plans? She wanted to break us, so she did?”

Faultline nods, clearly grateful for the chance to approach this mechanically, rather than wallowing in her emotions.

“I’m thinking it’s something along the lines of Shamrock’s power, only much more powerful. She has an objective in mind, and executes it perfectly.”

“Fuck,” I swear, short and sharp. “Boss, I hate to ask, but what are we going to do now? Where do we go from here?”

She reaches into her pocket, pulling out her phone and looking at it irritatedly as it pings with a message.

“Right before all this went down, I got a call from Tattletale. She offered to hire us for three point four million. I told her to double it, basically a polite way of telling her to go fuck herself, but she accepted the price. Now we’re stuck in a deal with her.”

“So she’s hired us. What for?”

“I don’t know,” Faultline says, her scowl deepening as her phone pings again, “but she’s got a private jet waiting for us at Daine County Airport. She wants Labyrinth for something, and the little bitch had the fucking audacity to suggest that she knew Labyrinth’s power better than I did.”

I pause, thinking back to that familiar tunnel.

“Boss, what exactly did she say?”

“That she has a group of people with very little to lose and nothing left to hope for, and she needs them on her side. She somehow thought Labyrinth could help with that.”

I frown, baring my teeth instinctively. I don’t like the sound of that.

“I need to tell you something I figured out, boss. Labyrinth doesn’t make her stuff, she copies it.”

Faultline falls silent for a moment, staring at me intently as she things something through.

“The tunnel.”

“Yeah. It’s from an old arena in Battersea, built out of an old Church. If Labyrinth can offer hope to people with very little to lose then Tattletale is either hoping to string them along with an illusion of their world, or…”

“Or she’s found a way to break through,” Faultline finishes, frowning. “Another cape, perhaps, or maybe salvaged Haywire tech. The means don’t matter, I suppose. She’s found other interdimensional refugees, perhaps even Madison escapees, and sees Labyrinth as their ticket home.”

“So what do we do?”

“We go, of course. I’ve already taken Tattletale’s money, and she would ruin our reputation if we renege after an agreement, even a verbal one. She’s almost certainly recorded the call. One thing’s for sure, though. If Tattletale does have a way to open gateways to other worlds, we need to make sure she doesn’t keep it when the job is done.”

<|°_°|>

Two vans meet us at the tiny airport in Maine, driven by two of Coil’s mercenaries, though the boss thinks they’re probably Tattletale’s mercenaries now. Newter, Gregor, Shamrock and Spitfire, patched up enough to walk under their own power even if they’re still injured, get into the rear van while myself, Labyrinth and the boss get into Tattletale’s van. Gregor’s face is still blistered and raw, but he insisted on coming with us.

Tattletale herself is waiting inside, lounging about in her usual black and purple costume, obnoxious grin plastered firmly on her face. She’s got faint scars stretching from the corners of her mouth, a classic Glasgow smile, but they look faded and old. Old enough that I should have noticed them during the ABB insurgency, but maybe I just wasn’t paying enough attention. She gives a signal to the driver, before turning to us as the van pulls away.

“Faultline, Gregor the Snail, Khanivore and, of course, _Labyrinth,”_ she smiles, steepling her fingers like some sort of fucking chess master. “So good to see you again.”

She leans back a little, grin never leaving her face. My patience for this shit is fading, fast, but she’s the employer on this, even if she is an annoying bitch.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I dropped six point four million to buy you. Like I said on the phone, I’ve figured something out about Labyrinth’s power-”

“That her powers copy architecture and terrain from alternate worlds. We’re aware,” the boss interrupts. I can’t see her face, but I’m absolutely sure that her face is twisted with almost savage joy. I’m not saying I understand _why_ the boss is so committed to this rivalry with a teenage girl, but we all have to get our kicks somehow.

Tattletale sighs, her shoulders slumping. For a second it looks like she’s carrying the weight of the world, until she pulls herself back together.

“Couldn’t let me have that, could you?”

She turns to look at me, a slight smile pulling at the corner of her face.

“I’m guessing it was either you or Shamrock that figured it out. I really should congratulate you; not many _people_ can pull the wool over my eyes quite like you did.”

She turns back to Faultline, and her smile falls from her face. It’s funny how much more expressive she looks in her domino mask, when compared to the boss’ featureless welding helmet.

“Listen, F. I’m going to level with you. The situations pretty shit. I’ve got a lot of problems on my plate and, since I just bought you, that means you do to. Baggage from Madison, which is something I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

“Get to the point,” Faultline growls, as the van starts to slow.

“The Travellers. They’re Cauldron capes, of a sort. Got pulled through into Madison and found superpowers in a bottle. They each took a sip, but there weren’t enough bottles for everyone. So two of them split a bottle between them, and the result of that fuck up is currently rampaging through Brockton Bay. Ironically, the only one who stands a chance at killing her is Sundancer. I brought Labyrinth in as an incentive, something to give her hope.”

The van stops and the driver gets out to haul the door open. The Travellers are standing on the side of the road, or four of them are, at least. Sundancer in her costume, Genesis in her wheelchair, a costumed man I think I recognise from Somer’s Rock and a fourth guy with blonde hair and civilian clothes. Behind them are about half a dozen mercenaries, their weapons lowered but ready. Are the Travellers allies, or captives?

Blondie and the other guy lift Genesis’ wheelchair into the van, while Sundancer nervously steps in. Her costume hides her face, but I can see it clearly in her posture. Like Tattletale, there’s a lot of weight on her shoulders. The Travellers keep glancing occasionally at Tattletale and Labyrinth, but none of them say anything. Tattletale might not have told them what she’s planning, at least, not the _whole_ truth.

There’s another stretch where the van slows and speeds up again, with tattletale peering anxiously out of the front windows. I would get up and try to peer over her head, but not without twitching and collapsing. That’s a weakness I’m not prepared to show in front of either the Travellers or Tattletale.

Instead, I find myself thinking back to the last night I had in the Palanquin. The _real_ Palanquin, not that pale shell of its former self that we lived in after Leviathan. Genesis and Sundancer were there, talking about how they spend all their time on the road, how they don’t have a home to go back to. I think about what I saw from the spire in Madison, the scattered buildings in odd places, a whole apartment block that had fallen from the sky. When I think of home all I can think of is the guilt I left there, but the Travellers don’t have that. Home is something they all want, but something they thought they’d never get back.

The van screeches to a halt and Tattletale steps up to open the door. Outside it’s like a scene from a fucking horror movie. We’re surrounded by capes, more than I can even hope to count. Perhaps eighty, perhaps a hundred. Every one of them is surrounding an immense monster lumbering through the city streets, looking like a malformed mass of flesh with a woman’s torso growing out of the top. I can see Weld standing next to a couple of other Protectorate Case-53s, surprisingly separate from everyone else. In fact, that seems to be a common theme here. Everyone’s wary about each other, more wary than they should be when confronted by a threat like this.

Faultline steps out after Tattletale, leading Labyrinth by the hand. I follow, walking alongside Labyrinth and keeping a wary eye out for the other capes. Something about the vibe here doesn’t sit right with me. Tattletale turns to Faultline as the rest of the Crew gets out of a van next to us.

“I need you to get Labyrinth to work on building something big and obvious. She’ll build the door, and I’ll bring in our battering ram.”

“Who?” Faultline asks, ice in her tone.

“You’ve run into him before, actually. Scrub, formerly of the Merchants.”

Scrub… Scrub…

Suddenly it hits me. The Cape who triggered in the fighting pit, the bastard who took chunks out of people and had glowing eyes or some other nonsense. What’s so special about him?

And then I remember something else. What happened to Labyrinth when Scrub Triggered, when he got his powers. Wherever the fuck she pulled that flesh monster from, I’ve never seen anything like it since. Maybe Scrub reacted to her somehow, or they both reacted to each other? Or maybe not. It’s not like powers need to make sense.

Faultline leads Labyrinth forward, and I follow her. We pick an unassuming patch of road and just wait while Labyrinth’s power creeps through the area. She pauses for a while, until stonework starts to grow out of the ground in front of her. I watch, idly, as in the distance a woman spears the monster through with an immense iron girder, pinning it to the ground for a brief moment.

She’s Alexandria, one of the three most powerful capes in the world. Even someone as out of the loop as I am when it comes to cape shit can recognise her steel grey helmet, full-face and styled like an ancient Greek warrior. Looking around I spot Legend, who I saw in the Slaughterhouse Nine fiasco, and Eidolon, his features hidden beneath a hooded costume that glows with an ethereal light. If they’re here, this must be serious.

A cape arrives, standing near to the Crew. He’s a kid, or near enough as to make no difference, maybe in his mid to late teens. His hair is white, unnaturally so, with wisps of white smoke slowly rising off of it. The same smoke is billowing from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth, so much so that they look like they’re filled with a white glow. I feel a twinge of revulsion at the sight of the former Merchant, but Gregor moves up to talk to him. If Scrub’s the key to these portals, we need him on our side. Whether he wants it or not, if it comes to that.

The tower takes shape, twisting and stretching into a small or tower that slowly grows as more walls and buttresses rise out of the concrete. The architecture isn’t like any I’ve seen before, or it’s like it’s a fusion of multiple different styles, and I can’t help but wonder what world she’s pulled it from, what purpose it was originally supposed to serve. The ground around the temple starts to sprout artificial flowers, with spiked thorns and petals as sharp as razor blades. Labyrinth isn’t in a good place right now, and it’s showing.

“Hey, F,” Tattletale cries, nonchalantly dodging a patch of flowers.

Faultline doesn’t respond to her good cheer.

“You’re aware that I’m going to track you down, beat you to a pulp and leave you tied up for the authorities to collect if we don’t get our payment?”

“You’ll get your payment the minute I have access to a computer Shatterbird hasn’t toasted,” Tattletale replies, as if the money is no issue. “No sweat.”

“I’m harbouring serious doubts,” Faultline replies, before glancing around to take in the scene; the dozens of heroes around the block, the monster being barely held back by a whole host of powers. “But I can look at this situation, and I understand if there’s a rush here. How does this work?”

“Really simple,” Tattletale replies, only barely burying her usual irritating tone. “We should get Labyrinth clear, though. Then I’ll show you.”

Faultline starts to lead Labyrinth back, and I follow close behind them. One of Tattletale’s colleagues – the bug girl, Skitter, I think – puts a hand on her shoulder and pulls her aside for a hushed conversation. After a second Tattletale pulls away, cupping her hands to her lips and shouting.

“Scrub! Get closer to the tower! Everyone else, get back! Labyrinth, don’t use your power any more! Hold off!”

Scrub steps away from the Crew, as a few dozen Capes turn to look at the source of the shouts. Inevitably their eyes are drawn to the tower that’s sprung up in the middle of a street. The air beside Scrub flickers in a flash of light. His power at work? Can’t he aim it? Another flashes in front of him, right on top of an area of altered road.

It happens in a heartbeat. The small patch of deadly flowers, the tower rising up almost three stories high, every patch of ground that Labyrinth’s changed goes up in an instant. What’s left is a white void, without depth or definition. Pure light, or perhaps even the absence of light. The wind changes, drawn into the space with almost gale-like force, pulling fag ends and old newspapers into the vast emptiness, where it disappears. It’s beautiful in its majesty, and horrifying in its scope.

The door has been kicked out of the frame.


	89. Deviant: 13.04

There’s something mesmerising about the void. It’s like looking into the heart of a star, its featureless white mass formed from potential energy just waiting to be unleashed. It’s silent and motionless, imposed upon the senses rather than being naturally observed by them. A tear, in reality itself.

It’s silent, but, even if it weren’t, I’d have been able to hear the cratering impact to my left. I pace backwards, moving around Labyrinth’s body to put myself between her and the source of the noise, even as I turn my head to set my one good eye on it. Alexandria has landed, next to Skitter and Tattletale. I can’t see any expressions beneath the helmet, but she doesn’t look happy.

“What did you do?” she growls, her voice the forceful tone of someone used to unquestioning obedience.

“Made a hole.” Tattletale, by contrast, is almost sickeningly insolent, still keeping up her veneer of confidence even when staring down the strongest woman in the world.

“ _Apparently._ You didn’t ask? You didn’t consider the ramifications of this? Close it _now.”_

“Who said we could close it?”

Alexandria reaches out, her arm a blur of motion, too fast for even me to follow. She clamps her hand around Tattletale’s neck, but doesn’t squeeze. A grown woman, a _hero,_ ready to kill a teenage girl. Worse still is that Tattletale doesn’t even look phased, like she was expecting this to happen.

“You’re a _fool,”_ she states, and it is a statement. There’s no room for doubt in her tone, just the truth as she sees it.

“I’d be careful,” someone growls from the side-lines. A Protectorate cape, by the looks of him. Come to think of it, every Protectorate cape here, the people who should by all rights be backing up one of their foremost members, is looking at Alexandria and the other Triumvirate members with either open hostility, concern or naked confusion. Alexandria turns to regard the Cape, who stands his ground.

“Wasn’t so long that your _partner_ called us _all_ fools.”

What the fuck did we miss? Something big enough to turn the Protectorate on their leadership?

“That wasn’t _him,”_ Alexandria says. The words sound pleading even if her tone is anything but. “It wasn’t _Eidolon_ who said that.”

“Close enough,” the cape responds. “Let her go. You can’t throw around authority you don’t have.”

“As of this moment, I am still Chief Director of the PRT, and I am the leader of the Protectorate team that overlooks the second largest city in the United States,” Faultline stiffens beside me. “That hasn’t changed. At the end of the day, I’ll face any consequences I have to, but for now, I’m still in charge.”

“Your authority doesn’t mean anything if they don’t accept it,” Tattletale says. I can’t see her face, but I know she’ll be giving Alexandria a truly vicious look. “Put me down.”

“I can’t let this go any further.”

I stiffen up. There’s absolutely fuck all I can do if her or Eidolon or Legend decide to kill us all, but maybe the Protectorate can buy me enough time to make sure Elle doesn’t have to see it.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Tattletale responds, “there’s no further to go. It’s pretty much _gone._ All that’s left is to find out whether this is a useful trick we pulled or a _really_ useful trick.”

“Useful?” Alexandria asks. I can’t fucking believe it. Even with Alexandria’s hand around her neck, Tattletale has still managed to force the woman to give ground.

“Worst case scenario, it’s a place we can dump Echidna. A place where she won’t be able to hurt anyone.”

“Or?”

“Or Labyrinth figures out that she can work with this.”

I turn my gaze back for a moment. Elle has been completely ignoring the drama unfolding around her. She’s solely focused on the void. As I watch her watching it, the featureless white space starts to shift and gain some definition, colours flickering in and out, consolidating into half-forms and blurred shapes. Behind me, I hear Alexandria speaking.

“Labyrinth… the shaker twelve.”

“That’s the one,” Tattletale replies, almost joyfully. “Mind letting go of my throat?”

Alexandria has pretty much surrendered the initiative by this point, and I don’t need to look back to guess that she’s done what Tattletale asked.

“It’s deep,” Labyrinth speaks, her voice cleared than I’d expect when she’s this out of it. It’s like the portal has focused her, at least a little bit. “There’s so much there. Worlds that I didn’t make.”

“All parts of a whole,” I hear Tattletale murmur, barely audible.

“Okay, Labyrinth. The world we’re looking for isn’t very deep at all. In fact, it’s very, very close to the surface. When you push into that world, it’ll feel _easier_. Like a path that someone’s already walked, more than once.”

“There’s two like that.”

It takes a second for Labyrinth’s words to sink in but, when they do, I almost can’t control my reaction. I remember buildings scattered throughout a ruined city, built in two distinct styles. Urban structures from another Madison, and research structures from _Cauldron._

“Look,” Labyrinth says, the void coalescing in front of her. “One’s like this…”

The image shifts, becoming clearer even if it’s stretched and distorted at the edge of the portal. There’s a landscape on the other side, filled with the grassy hills that the city has buried in this world. There are a couple of buildings, blocky and overgrown with moss and ivy. Not Aleph.

I can’t help it; I start to laugh. A hearty sound, from my chest rather than my voice box, but one that was born in bitterness. Two worlds, two travel points. The first were the Travellers, brought directly from Madison. The second was the owners of that complex, the inhabitants of _this_ world. But I know there’s more than that. Every Case-53 is another world, another path travelled. But only two worlds have a connection to Earth Bet, which means every one of us is brought to a distribution centre first. It’s confirmation that the world I’m looking at is the fucking _hub_ of the whole Case-53 program.

We can’t do anything with this knowledge, can’t beat the agent they sent after us, but this does prove one thing. Her power _isn’t_ perfection. If it were, we wouldn’t be looking at this. Sure, it might be close, but near-perfection is meaningless. Near-perfection can be beaten, we just have to find a way.

“…And here’s the other.”

The image shifts again, spiralling and distorting before reforming into another city, a different city. We’re standing on a main road, but the portal opens up onto a small two-lane street with a few shops, closed this early in the morning. The street is empty, but I doubt it’ll stay that way for long.

“Earth Aleph,” Tattletale says, with a grin.

“Are you _insane_?” Alexandria demands. “There’s sanctions, treaties, _truces_. If you open this hole to Earth Aleph, it could mean a war between universes.”

“If that war was possible,” Tattletale retorts, like she’s explaining something to a child, “we’d have had it already. The possibility of a whole other world of resources is too much to pass up. Sure, our side has more raw firepower, by a factor of a hundred, but their side has just as many nukes. It’s a zero-sum war.”

“You don’t understand what you’re getting into.”

“What I understand is that accidents happen, and everyone in earshot will call this particular inter-universal portal as an accident, because it keeps things peaceful. I also understand that this keeps Brockton Bay on the map. Any other circumstance, people are going to keep trying to scrap this city, to accept that it’s too costly to rebuild, that the criminal element holds too much power. They’ll throw bill after bill out there until the right combination of people are in power, the right hands can be greased, and Brockton Bay gets bulldozed and paved over.”

“It still could,” some cape chimes in from the wings. I can’t really bring myself to give a shit about the fate of this cesspool of a city right now, not when interdimensional war is apparently on the table.

“Oh, sure, _theoretically_ ,” Tattletale says, almost derisively. “But there’s really two options here. Either we spread the word, and a whole sub-industry explodes around this simple little doorway, accessing and trading information between worlds, research, a mess of other stuff, a city full of residents who’ve put up with disaster after disaster get work, get their homes rebuilt, and ultimately get their second chance.”

“Or we keep this a secret,” the bug girl, Skitter, finishes her thought, “and we get none of that.”

““Or we keep this a secret,” Tattletale agrees, “We do what _Alexandria_ wants, and everything stays hush hush, just the way the big bad secret organization likes it.”

“You have _no idea_ what you’re doing,” Alexandria declares. She hasn’t raised her voice, not once.

“Fucking you over?”

“You’re putting _everything_ at stake. All of us, this world. Even if we ignore the chance of our very first _interdimensional_ war-”

“Traitor!” someone shouts from the crowd, cutting her off. I can’t help but feel like I’m missing some much-needed context. Alexandria’s argument is sound, even _I’m_ fucking agreeing with her. The risk of interdimensional war – fucking _nuclear war_ – isn’t worth it. Not when we’re talking about an insignificant little city that was already dead before Leviathan came along and danced on its corpse.

I spot movement out of the corner of my eye. Gregor, escorting Sundancer and the other costumed Traveller forwards. Both their hands are bound behind their back.

“I can’t help but agree with Alexandria,” Faultline states. “This is reckless.”

“More than a little,” Tattletale agrees, her usual needling tone absent. She might have hired us, but she recognises that it’s Faultline who’ll ultimately determine where this portal points. “But I’m not sure you heard the full story. I only heard it second-hand, and I was with you from the time your aircraft arrived. When we last ran into Newter, you guys were looking for dirt on Cauldron. You still looking?”

“Why?” Faultline asks, her tone guarded.

“No less than ten minutes ago, Eidolon’s evil double admitted full culpability. The Triumvirate, much of the upper levels of the Protectorate. Kidnapping people from other universes, experimenting on them to figure out some power-inducing formulas, dropping them here. Might help you to understand why people are giving Alexandria the evil eye.”

The boss glances at Alexandria, taken aback. “A little too easy, to find out like this,” she says, but her heart’s not in it. A whole host of shit just started to make sense: the hostility of the Protectorate Capes, Alexandria’s determination to stop the portal from opening. I can’t help but think about Weld, about how he’s put his trust in the PRT to investigate the Case-53s.

Alexandria said she was still a Protectorate team leader and that she was still the Chief Director of the PRT, but the Chief Director is a human. That’s supposed to be the whole point of the PRT in the first place, to provide human oversight to Parahumans.

“It’s not the full story,” Tattletale clarifies. “Not by half. But it should inform your call on whether to side with her or not.”

“That’s not…” Faultline’s head drops a fraction, and I know she’s frowning underneath her helmet. “No. Maybe she is the person behind the scenes. Fine. But that doesn’t change the fact that she might be right. Better to have Labyrinth find another universe to link to. Maybe one where a mountain is blocking the other side of this gateway, if we can’t close it.”

You made the right call, boss. It’s not worth risking war just so that Tattletale’s stake in this shithole city gets a little bit more valuable.

“Why do you have to be so _reasonable_?” she pouts, dropping whatever pretence she was using to try and persuade the boss. “That’s the worst of both worlds.”

“It’s not _war,_ ” Faultline retorts with a hint of finality.

“Stop,” another voice speaks up from amongst the Protectorate ranks. People start to move aside to let the speaker pass through. He’s dressed in silver and gold armour, with an absurdly large sword resting on his shoulder. It takes me a second to place the high-tech knight. Chevalier. One of the first Parahumans I ever encountered, what feels like a lifetime ago.

“There’s other concerns. The deal that was described to me was that the Travelers would do what they could to eliminate Echidna. Failing that, we find a way to move her through the gap and deposit her in a place where she can do no harm. That’s our first priority.”

A murmur of agreement meets his words, polite and respectful. It seems like Chevalier is the rising star to counter the falling angel of the Triumvirate. Whatever his job is now, it wouldn’t surprise me if he comes out of this with a promotion.

“Want to go home, Sundancer? B-man?” Tattletale asks the bound Travellers as Gregor uses a knife to free their hands. “Genesis? Oliver?”

Three of the Travellers are staring with rapt attention at the portal, at their home. All except Sundancer, who’s looking at the ground as she shakes her head.

“What?” Tattletale asks her.

“I… it’s not home anymore, is it?” her voice is hesitant, almost pained. “I’m not me. Can’t go back to the way things were. I’ve killed people. Accidentally, but I’ve killed. I have powers. If I went there, I wouldn’t be Marissa. I’d be… Sundancer. I’d be famous. If anyone found out about me, or if there was something in the media that goes between worlds, that clued them in…”

Fuck. Sometimes, life just likes to fuck you over. You spend so long hiding from things you don’t want to admit, only for life to drop a mirror right in front of you, when you least expect it, and force you to take a long hard look at yourself. I’ve killed. I’ve maimed and I’ve murdered, and I’m not the person I was before. If I got back, I’d be the monster that disappeared for four months, leaving everyone she knew to deal with three bodies without so much as a word of goodbye.

“They don’t have to know,” Tattletale says, gently.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I can.”

“Are you talking about going home,” Skitter’s voice is harsh, almost mechanical, “or killing Noelle?”

So the monster has a name. If one of my friends, one of the Crew, ever turned out like that, I don’t know if I’d have the strength to make the choice Sundancer’s faced with. I’ve seen her out of costume, seen her laughing and drinking with Genesis, with _Jess._

“She’s… she was my best friend.”

“She’s not Noelle anymore.”

Sundancer shakes her head, looking like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

“Go,” Tattletale says, much more compassionately than her partner. “She’s not happy like this. You do this, then you go home. You give your mom a hug, fabricate an excuse to explain why you disappeared, and then go back to life as normal. Never use your powers again, if you don’t want to. See if you can eventually convince yourself that none of this ever happened.”

“It’s not that easy.”

It’s not that easy. I can’t just disappear for four months and pretend like nothing ever happened; I can’t just go back to _them._ I don’t even know what I’d say, don’t even know what I _could_ say. With everything I did, everything I didn’t do, what could I possibly say to make it right?

“No. But it’s a hell of a lot better than staying here, isn’t it?” Tattletale’s voice is soft, compassionate. She knows she’s talking to someone who’s been through so much that they feel too tired to take the last step.

“She’s my _friend._ ”

“Was,” Skitter interjects. “It’s a big difference.”

Utilitarian bitch. Tattletale is someone who plays with people’s emotions like a master violinist, but it seems like Skitter sees the world differently. She wants to hold it down, to divide it into the component parts of a machine, to remove all emotion from her considerations until she’s left with pure, merciless, reason. She’s like Faultline, in a way.

Problem is that I’ve seen the end of that path for perfection. Cauldron’s agent, perfect in her every movement but utterly inhuman because of it.

Sundancer looks ahead, past the rocks and rubble and forcefields holding her friend down. The monster – _Noelle_ – is forcing her claws through the forcefields, digging through them a little faster than they can be layered on. A stalemate, but not a sustainable one.

“Are there… does she still have anyone inside her?”

“There’s-” whatever Tattletale was about to say gets consumed by a cough. If my eyes – my _eye_ , I suppose – weren’t half as good as they are, I’d never have spotted the fly that flew into her mouth. Skitter.

“No,” she lies. “I’ve been keeping track with my bugs. Weld and the others got everyone out.”

Heartless bitch. Sundancer is baring her fucking heart here, and she gets lies? Then again, maybe I’m just as bad. I could say something, but I don’t. I don’t know the situation here, not really, but it’s more than that. More than anything, I want Sundancer to succeed. If she can do it, maybe I can too.

Sundancer hangs her head and starts moving forwards, her hands cupped in front of her. Embers flicker between her palms before coalescing into a pinprick of light, a miniature sun that starts to grow.

“Move!” Chevalier shouts. “Clear out of the way!”

The assembles heroes start to retreat, pulling back from the mountain of buried flesh, still writing and roaring in its prison. Within moments the only people still at that end of the street are Noelle and Sundancer.

Sundancer’s power flares, and the heat hits me like a physical force. I don’t move back. I don’t think I can. I need to watch this, need to see. Out of respect, out of fear. Out of the faint hope of redemption.

Noelle roars, a horrible sound that echoes across the surrounding buildings, reverberating through the evacuated streets. She starts to tear at her prison, freeing her torso only to be consumed by a fusillade of fire from the assembled heroes. Her flesh is regenerating faster than they can destroy it, but the artificial sun is moving closer and closer.

“Marissa!” the monster screams from five different mouths, a horrible, animalistic, noise that still has something human deep at its core. “Mars! It’s too soon! I want to kill them! I want to kill them all! Kill this world! Destroy this universe that did this to me! Not yet, Mars!”

Sundancer’s sun leaves her hands, flying forwards to envelop Noelle and her prison. The creature’s screams are smothered beneath the sound of crackling flesh, of melting concrete, as everything the sun touches is atomised. Its light is blinding, casting deep shadows across the street, across the dozens of capes watching as it flickers and burns.

After about a minute the sun abruptly vanishes, leaving only a fiery afterglow on my eyeball. I blink, quickly, until it’s faded enough for me to make out Sundancer, her back turned away from the scant remains of her friend, as she starts to walk towards the portal.

She pulls off her mask and throws it aside, revealing the blonde-haired woman I saw in the Palanquin, so full of life. She looks haunted, tears streaming down her face in spite of the heat surrounding her. Wherever she walks, melted asphalt cools and solidifies into a black sea, frozen in place. She starts to pull of her costume – her _armour_ – throwing it aside as she sheds Sundancer, sheds the identity she built up to protect the woman hidden beneath the mask. The pieces of her costume smoulder or melt the moment they touch the scorching road, being slowly consumed.

When she’s finished, she’s left in just her camisole and terry shorts. She’s unarmoured, vulnerable, but there’s strength in that vulnerability. She doesn’t need her armour anymore, doesn’t need to hide herself away from the world behind a mask, behind her power. Marissa steps through the portal, leaving Sundancer behind.

The other Travellers, Genesis and blonde-haired boy, leave next. The last Traveller, the one in costume, stops at the threshold and shouts something to Chevalier, but I don’t hear it. I’m too wrapped up in what I just saw to think straight.

“Can you close it?” Faultline asks Labyrinth, once the last of the Travellers has gone.

“No. Not really,” Labyrinth replies, still more coherent than I was expecting. “I can pick a different world. So there’s no war. Or do like you said, find a place where a mountain covers the hole.”

“Feel free,” Tattletale says, beaming from ear to ear. “In fact, that might even be _more_ useful. Can you imagine how significant Brockton Bay might become, if we had a whole unpopulated world to get to, harvest for resources, and Brockton Bay was the terminal you had to pass through?”

Faultline scowls. “You used us.”

“I _hired_ you,” Tattletale snaps back, grinning like an urban fox that’s just been caught rummaging through our bins. “Not my fault if you didn’t ask for enough money.”

Faultline ignores her, putting an arm around Labyrinth’s shoulders. “Can you find a world without people?”

“I… yes. There’s one with lots of trees. I’m looking all over, and I can’t find anyone at all. Not even on the other side of the oceans. Only animals.”

Poor girl. No wonder she finds it so hard to focus on what’s around her. We’re too small.

“That’ll do,” Faultline replies, before looking at Tattletale. “Not for you,” she says. Her tone is icy; it couldn’t be more different from how she was talking to Labyrinth. “Only because I couldn’t stand to let her be responsible for an Endbringer finding a defenceless world.”

“Much obliged, whatever the reasoning,” Tattletale replies, flashing the boss a smile that makes me want to stove her fucking face in.

Faultline frowns, turning to lead Labyrinth away. I follow, taking one last glance at the portal. There’s just rolling hills on the other side. A new world, untouched by human hands.

“Wait!” someone shouts, from behind us. I turn, straining a little to bring my one eye around, and see Weld striding through the crowd, being given almost as wide a berth as Chevalier. That might have something to do with the two irate-looking Case-53s walking behind him; a fairly normal-looking boy with crimson skin and hair, and a woman, eight feet tall and covered in irregular muscles that almost make her look like a hunchback. Half her face has been deliberately hidden beneath a curtain of braids that hang almost to the ground and her jaw has a severe underbite. She’s carrying a shovel, for some reason.

“You should stay,” Weld says, looking between Faultline and our own Case-53s. “Your people have as much of a right to be here as any of us.”

“Weld,” I greet him with a nod. “Good to see you again, though I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Likewise, Sonnie,” he replies, before his eyes widen as he spots my missing eye. “What happened to you?”

“Cauldron,” I say bluntly, noticing how the woman’s grip tightens around her shovel. “I’ll say more later, once we’re away from prying eyes,” I nod in the general direction of Alexandria, who’s standing apart from the crowd with Eidolon, shrouded in her cape.

“So who are your friends, Weld,” the woman asks. “Thought you were too much of a boy scout to have friends on the _other side._ ” Her voice deep and it sounds like she’s joking, but there’s an undercurrent of bitterness there. It’s not hard to see why. For all that Weld is a Case-53, he’s one of the most photogenic ones out there. It’s served him well in his career, but her appearance is probably only a detriment.

“Right,” Weld says, either indifferent to her tone or smoothing over it. “Allow me to introduce Faultline and her team. Gregor and Newter,” he gestures to them, the two of them a little unsettled by being so close to three heroes, “are both Case-53s. The others are Labyrinth, Shamrock, Spitfire and Khanivore, who’s a friend of mine.”

He turns to look at me specifically, gesturing first to the woman and then to the red-skinned boy.

“These are Gully and Sanguine, with the Wards.”

Gulls looks down at me, her eye raised in confusion.

“So ‘Khanivore’ isn’t a Case-53?” she asks Weld, but I answer.

“It’s complicated. Never actually told you the whole truth, Weld. Sorry, but given what’s just happened I’d call my paranoia justified. I’ll lay my cards on the table later.”

Weld nods, understanding clear on his face. Frankly, I don’t know how he’s holding up half as well as he is. His whole world has just been turned upside down.

“Come with us,” Weld says to Faultline, gesturing with a shoulder over his thumb.

Behind us, the Protectorate and Undersider capes are arrayed in a rough semicircle around Alexandria. They’re probably demanding answers, and she’s probably offering them the usual platitudes. Her helmet has been melted away in the heat of Sundancer’s power, leaving her unmasked in front of the assembled Capes, strands of cooling metal solidifying amongst her hair. She’s only got one eye.

“Nobody over there knows who to trust. They don’t know which of their teammates bought powers from a vial, which might have done favours to Cauldron. Out of everyone here, we’re the only united front. The monsters. I know you’ve been investigating Cauldron, or at least I’m pretty certain. If you know anything, anything at all, now’s the time to share it. With them, and _us._ ”

Faultline looks at him for a moment, thinking through her decision. After a few seconds she pulls her phone out of her belt and sends off a quick text.

“Spitfire, run to the intersection of Lord’s Street and Orange. Matryoshka will meet you there. Bring her here, as fast as you can.”

Spitfire nods, turning and running off into the city. We start to slowly make our way towards the mass of capes, turning just in time to see one of them spit in Alexandria’s face. There’s a quick argument, before Alexandria’s voice can be heard clearly. Even now, her voice still cuts through the air like a knife.

“Too much depends on the Protectorate, even internationally. If it crumbles, then the whole world suffers for it. Other teams around the world would go without the resources we provide. If it means keeping the Protectorate intact, I will step down. I’ll tender my resignation as Chief Director of the PRT, effective the moment I can reach my desk. I’ll consent to being watched until the moment I can step down as Alexandria, if you are uncomfortable with me continuing to serve the Protectorate in costume. Eidolon, I’m sure, will do the same. Myrddin’s death will be excuse enough for our retirements.”

“What about Legend?” Miss Militia demands. The man himself is hovering over the whole scene, maybe fifteen meters off the ground. Elitist cunt. He’s either so far up his own arse he believes he’s above us, or he’s too chickenshit to face the weight of his sins.

“He was only aware of the most basic elements. That Cauldron sold powers, but not how we tested them. He did not know of our relation to the Nine.”

The _Nine_? The _Slaughterhouse_ Nine? How deep does this fucking rabbit hole go? How far has the rot spread?

“He made excuses for you,” Miss Militia states. “Lied. We can’t trust him any more than we can trust you.”

“I’m aware. But what he does next is ultimately up to him. I am only telling you what I know, and I know he did not know as much as Eidolon and I did.”

“That’s not good enough,” a cape says, almost shouts to be heard. “You’ve committed crimes against humanity. You bastards should be tried.”

“Do that, and the whole world pays. Every cape would come under scrutiny, both from other parahumans and from the public. Teams would dissolve, faith would falter, and I sincerely doubt we’d last through the next two Endbringer attacks in that kind of a state.”

It’s always the same old shit, isn’t it? Banks that are too big to fail, politicians who get away with murder because to go after them would mean the collapse of the party in power. The powerful, the _truly_ powerful, don’t need to worry about something as small and insignificant as _consequences._

“And the captives?” Miss Militia asks. “The people from other worlds Cauldron kidnapped?”

“Anyone with clearance should know that the number of people with physical mutations has declined steeply. We’ve stopped experimenting.”

A lie, or at best a half-truth. The paperwork we found listed a Nemesis among the purchases. If they’ve _really_ stopped, it was only after Leviathan. A month ago. Worse still are the hundreds, perhaps _thousands_ of victims Shamrock and Matryoshka saw in their time in Cauldron. Victims who were never brought to Earth Bet, who are still locked up in cells without doors.

“You need us,” Alexandria said. “If not for the assistance we can provide in the face of class-S threats, then for the image, for the idea. I’m trusting that each of you are sane enough, reasonable enough, to understand that. You could come after us, but I assure you it wouldn’t be worth it.”

“And Cauldron?” someone asks.

“As I said, we’re only barely involved. If you want to try going after them and get justice for what happened to the captives, feel free. Just know that we can’t help you there. We can’t give you access or information, because they’re out of your reach, and in the wake of all this, they’ll be out of our reach too.”

Lies. Lies upon lies. Distancing from herself from the mess _she_ made, so that she never has to face her sins in the mirror. Around me, angry voices build up. The Protectorate capes, who’ve just learned their whole organisation was built on a lie. Gully, shouting and screaming her rage into the perfect face of the woman who made her into a monster. Maybe even a few Vial capes, hidden amongst the ranks, shouting their disbelief and guilt now that they’ve learned their Nemesis wasn’t some vat-grown clone or paid actor but a living, breathing, person. A slave they purchased to advance their career.

And suddenly, the cacophony of sound is drowned out by the chittering of thousands of insects, a swarm filling the sky above us in a gesture meant to intimidate and silence. Skitter steps out of the crowd, out in front of Alexandria. She turns to face us, putting herself on _her_ side against us.

“She’s right,” she says, and she’s immediately drowned out by the shouts. I join them, a deep roar from the base of my throat that has the Capes around me flinching back in shock. Skitter simply moves her swarm again, using the chittering of innumerable insects to browbeat us into silence.

“I’m not a public speaker, so I’ll make it short. I’ve got a long history with the Protectorate, a hell of a lot more experience being angry with them. I wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for them, and that’s not a good thing, not entirely. But Alexandria’s right. Not about Cauldron, or the human experimentation. I don’t know anything about that. But she’s right that we shouldn’t make any rash decisions. Talk it out with your teammates before you make a call. Maybe the various team and squad leaders should convene, form a unanimous decision. I don’t know. But… don’t let your anger push you to do something that affects everyone. Please.”

“And who the _fuck_ are you!?” someone shouts. After a second of silence I realise it was me. Fuck it; in for a penny, in for a pound of flesh. I pace forwards, throwing my weight into the crowd as they either step aside or get knocked aside. This condescending child put herself next to Alexandria, facing us, so I do the opposite. I pace in front of the semicircle of Capes, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on her.

“What have you lost? What’s your stake in this fight? We gave everything we have to find out the truth about these bastards, only to be stamped down by their fucking hitwoman. To be _broken._ Those are the fucking stakes here, and you think we can make it right if we all just sit down and hold hands and ignore the _mountain_ of bodies beneath our feet?”

I don’t pause for breath, don’t give her the chance to pull that shit with her swarm. I don’t need to, not when I’m forced to talk through a damn machine.

“For every Case-53 they _deigned_ to release on the world there are another three that died to _test_ the powers they sold, to get their fucking doses right. Every one of them a victim, every one of them taken from their home and their family. There’s more, too. Thousands more of them held, even now, in a prison that’s deliberately designed to _dehumanise_ them. They aren’t even allowed to _speak their own name_!”

Behind me, I can feel the energy of the crowd shifting. If she tries her bug thing again, I reckon they might just tear her from limb from limb.

“But that’s okay! Cauldron, their human experimentation, their crimes against nature, that’s something you can _dismiss_ , but this is our _life_ you’re talking about. You don’t have to go to work tomorrow and wonder if the person who shares your office got their powers from a fucking bottle, if they owe favours to secret masters! You don’t have to wave the flag of an organisation that was built on a _lie_ and maintained by _blackmail_ and _assassinations_!”

Her argument was reasoned, logical, but it’s the logic of someone with no stake in this fight. I’m no orator either, but what I do have is passion. What I do have is a burning hatred of anyone who claims to focus on the big picture while ignoring all the bodies they leave in their wake.

“You didn’t listen as they _promised_ you that they’d discover the mystery behind your origins,” I say, a little quieter this time, as I catch Weld’s eye, “maybe even that they’d find a way to _fix_ you, to give you a _normal_ life, only to learn that same organisation has kept the answers shut away behind quarantine walls for _two years._ ”

I step away from the crowd and lumber towards Skitter, who stands her ground. She’s taller than me when I’m on all fours, but I’m a fucking freight-train in comparison to her stick-thin figure.

“You’ve got your city back, _Undersider_. You’ve got your portal, your _blood money_. But you’re right; _you don’t know anything._ So get back on your high horse, and fuck off.”

She looks down at me for a second, before an immensely oversized beetle lands behind her and bugs swarm to hide her from sight. She takes flight, riding the beetle like some sort of flying horse, and for a brief moment she hovers there, staring at me.

Her costume is professional-looking, with a full-face mask and yellow lenses of her eyes. I meet her gaze, staring up at her false-face with one good eye and a socket filled with congealed blood, a monster surrounded by a crowd of heroes. She looks down on us from on high for a few moments more, before turning and flying away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter borrowed most of its dialogue from Worm. Specifically, Scourge 19.7.
> 
> It will be the last chapter of Ghost in the Flesh to do so.


	90. Deviant: 13.05

Once the Undersider disappears from view, I start to feel a little self-conscious. I’m used to crowds, used to being watched in one way or another. Even in private, the others always had a direct line to my vital signs. I lived in a glass case, constantly under observation. But this feels different from the crowd at a fight. Maybe it’s because I can’t deflect anymore, because I can’t use my _old_ body to draw attention away from me. Maybe it’s something more primal than that; maybe I’m used to dismissing the crowd in favour of the fight, but here there’s nothing to draw my attention from _them._

I’m surrounded by eighty capes, and each of them is looking at me. That they’re _capes_ just makes it worse. Any one of them, maybe even most of them, have powers that make me just as vulnerable as anyone else. Worse still are the eyes of Alexandria, Eidolon and Legend flying overhead. To them, I might as well be an insect, _less_ than human. Worse, they’ve already decided I’m _not_ human. Here I am, twelve feet of sinew, muscle and bone and I’m crippled by fear. My armour is meaningless right now.

My eye scans the crowd, settling on a group of familiar faces, and I start to lumber through the capes, my head low, looking at the ground. I want to stand up, to at least be able to see over the crowd, to get the illusion of strength that comes with that little extra height, but I can’t even do _that_ now. At least I’m still imposing enough for the capes to clear a path for me. Not like they did for Chevalier, full of awe and respect, but like they’re wary of me, like they’re getting out of the way of a wild beast. At least I haven’t lost that…

I don’t stop moving until I’m surrounded by familiar faces, back in the safety net of friends and family that I’ve built around myself. Weld is looking down at me, some indeterminable expression in his eyes.

“Sonnie…”

“I don’t give a fuck about the Protectorate, Weld,” I say to him. “I’m not one for causes, for bigger picture thinking, but you are, and you do care. The way you talked about it when we last met… I guess I liked seeing someone who was so passionate about something I’d usually dismiss out of hand.”

I pause for a moment, hanging my head before looking Weld dead in the eye.

“She put four bullets through my eye. I’ve got nerve damage, partial paralysis all down my left side, and the bullets are still in there, slowly eating away at my immune system. My life support system got destroyed as well, which means I’ve got maybe two or three weeks before I starve to death on a full stomach, unless we can find a solution. But the others have it worse. They’ve been part of this shit for years, even if they don’t remember it. I couldn’t just sit here and watch some kid dismiss them like they’re nothing, like everything they’ve suffered doesn’t matter.”

Faultline’s looking over the crowd, which has started to descend back into another argument. Her arm is resting contemptuously on her hip, and I reckon she’s got a look like a scolding schoolteacher on her face. At least it’s not aimed at me.

“They’re not sure who to trust anymore. It’s more than just the knowledge that some of their people may have been compromised by Cauldron; it’s that the people they trusted to have their backs might have _bought_ their powers.”

I think I catch her meaning. People get powers from the worst day of their life, and it probably eats away at a cape to know that someone could get the same result by paying for it, by buying from a vial. It’s logic that doesn’t make sense to me, but that’s because it doesn’t need to be logical to make sense. There’s solidarity in shared experiences, a fundamental common point between all parahumans that’s suddenly been broken.

“Legend!” someone shouts from the mass of capes, an angry voice I’ve not heard before. “This isn’t something you can hide from!”

The Triumvirate cape has been hovering over things for a while. I don’t know if it’s because he’s too chickenshit to face up to his crimes or if it’s him doubling down, lording over the rest of the Protectorate because he’s just so damn powerful. Chevalier steps out of the crowd, his sword still resting on his shoulder. It’s not a threat, can’t possibly be a threat to someone hovering fifteen metres above the ground, but it’s still a line in the sand.

“He’s right,” he doesn’t shout, but his voice carries clearly. “You lied to cover Cauldron’s activities, lied about where the Case-53s were coming from. You may not want to be here, you may want to run away from your actions, but you _are_ here. You’re every bit as complicit as the rest of the Triumvirate, and running away won’t achieve anything except cementing your reputation in the eyes of everyone that used to idolise you.”

“He didn’t know,” Alexandria says, her eyes focused on Chevalier, ignoring all the other capes that still crowd her. “He only told you what we told him.”

“I knew…” the words are quiet, almost swept away by the breeze pouring out of the flickering portal, but everyone heard them. Legend starts to sink from the sky, slowly, almost hesitantly. Pretty soon he’s hidden beneath the mass of the crowd. Not a god or a cape, just a man who’s been forced to face the consequences of his actions.

“I knew, and I covered it up. Maybe it was weakness, maybe it was fear, maybe it was that I still couldn’t quite believe that the people I’d known and trusted for twenty-five years were _capable_ of doing what they did. I suppose it doesn’t matter now. I’m well aware that I can no longer be _trusted_ to lead the Protectorate, so I’ll be resigning at the first opportunity.”

“Trust…” Miss Militia speaks up from the crowd. “That brings us to another problem. We can’t trust what the Triumvirate said, but nor can we wholly trust what Echidna’s clones revealed. It’s the sort of paranoia that could consume us.”

“I believe that’s my cue,” Faultline says, stepping confidently into the crowd. It’s times like this that really make me realise just how much better she is than I am. I only stepped forwards because I was fuelled by piss and vinegar, enough to ignore the dozens of capes around me. Once the heat of the moment faded, it was all I could do to slink back to the others with my tail between my legs.

But Faultline? She’s not running on rage. She’s calm, collected, and she’s waited for the exact moment to _take control_ of the conversation. What I managed by accident and conviction, she’s done meticulously and deliberately.

“This doesn’t concern you, mercenary,” Alexandria states, with the usual disdain people like her have when they talk about our profession. Fucking hypocrites, every one of them.

“Doesn’t it?” Faultline asks, almost amused. She turns, disregarding Alexandria, to look over the assembled Protectorate capes. About eighty people, every one of whom would be trying to lock her up if this situation were _any_ different.

“My team has been investigating Cauldron for the past six months. I had begun to wonder why we were enjoying so much success when Watchdog’s own investigation had been running for years with no results, but now I understand why.”

Someone in the crowd swears.

“Half a year of quiet inquiries made with my own network of contacts and investigators, taking the right jobs in the right places to put us in the right places at the right time. Excursions to the other side of the country, chasing rumours and hearsay. Before today, we were the best-informed people on the planet who weren’t already members of Cauldron. What’s more, we’re completely impartial. You may find it convenient to mock our mercenary nature, but it means we’re the only people here without a stake in the argument. The Protectorate could sink or swim, I honestly don’t care.”

She pauses, taking a moment to look us over. Weld and his two friends are pretty much completely intermingled with our group now. Heroes and villains, united by their shared experiences.

“If you have doubts over the veracity of our information, you only need to look at our injuries. We were attacked by a Cauldron agent, in an attempt to silence us. We have _witness testimony_ from Cauldron subjects who remember their origins, the names of former Asylum East staff they compromised and _official paperwork_ we recovered from the ruins of a city ravaged by the Endbringers.”

“Madison,” Alexandria practically spits the word out. “Your information is contaminated.”

“Brockton Bay, actually,” Faultline says, too professional to let her triumph show, even though I know she’s grinning from ear to ear under her mask. “The Merchants salvaged a case from the ruins, with vials and paperwork. We salvaged it from them. But _thank_ _you_ for confirming the connection. After all, Madison was where this all started.”

I spot movement at the edge of the road, past the groups of people. Spitfire is leading Matryoshka to us. After what Cauldron’s agent did to her, she’s had trouble holding herself together, and I mean that literally. She looks a lot more like what she really is; a woman made from fleshy strings and black ribbons.

“The Travellers were brought to Madison along with several parts of Aleph’s version of that city. That information was suppressed on _both_ worlds. Aleph advanced the story that the disappearances were the result of malfunctioning Haywire tech, Bet simply sealed everything behind a containment wall. Only the Aleph-US Department of Defence and the PRT knew the truth. But that only accounts for half the structures present in Madison. The remainder were taken from Cauldron. The monsters some of you undoubtedly fought there were Case-53s who hadn’t yet had their memory wiped. Case-53s who remember everything Cauldron did to them. Each one of them was a dagger pointed at the heart of Cauldron and while Cauldron sealed them away, using the PRT as their proxy, they were blindsided by the real threat. By Echidna.”

“Even if that’s true, and I’m inclined to believe you,” Chevalier begins, making a calming gesture as voices rise up around him, “we can’t verify that information immediately.”

“True enough, though I will be sending everything I have to you,” Faultline says, her tone laid-back. “Fortunately, that’s far from the only evidence we’ve found. Three of my group could be classed as Cauldron escapees, and two still remember their time in captivity, where they were kidnapped and experimented on.”

“That’s a half-truth,” Alexandria interjects. “Cauldron recruited the dying, offered them a second chance at life.”

“You’re lying…” Shamrock is quite beside me, her voice muted. I can only imagine what’s going through her head right now. She spent years being conditioned to fought for Cauldron, to kill for Cauldron, and now every memory she’s set aside has come rushing back in the form of the three most powerful people in the world. This is a big moment for her, the _one_ chance she has to turn away from Cauldron and everything they’ve done to her. I want to place a comforting hand on her shoulder, but I can’t trust my own strength. She’ll have to face this alone.

No, not alone. Gregor is standing next to her, his hand dwarfing her own as he holds it tight, speaking gentle words of reassurance in a rumbling voice. Shamrock nods to him, pulling away from his grip, and takes a step forward.

“You’re lying!”

It doesn’t quite draw the attention of the whole crowd, not right away, but it does get enough of them that the others start to take notice as well. Shamrock throws off her mask, reaching behind her back to pull the zip of her costume down. She pulls it off her shoulder, exposing the tattoo poking out from beneath her bra strap. We thought it was an Omega from the Greek alphabet, but it’s not. It’s a C.

“I… I was sixteen when they took me. From my dormitory in the Dublin temple-school. I don’t know how old I am now. Somewhere between eighteen and nineteen, I think. They gave us numbers at first, tested our powers to see what they’d made. After about a year, they let me choose a name. I chose Shamrock. From there, I was trained up to enforce their contracts, assassinate those who broke them. When I saw my chance to escape, I took it.”

Matryoshka’s standing silently, right next to me. She’s looking over the crowd like she’d rather be anywhere else, like she wants to curl up in on herself. Come to think of it, the last Capes she saw before us were probably trying to kill her. Being here, surrounded by them, must be terrifying. I move a little closer to her, looking up at her as she silently trembles.

“You spoke about wanting to make amends,” I say, quiet enough that only she can hear. “This might be the only chance you get.”

“I…” she stammers in a harsh whisper. “I can’t. They’re… they’re the ones…”

“I understand,” I respond as soon as she trails off. I shouldn’t have tried to push her into talking in the first place. I certainly wouldn’t take it well if someone asked me to talk to the people who wronged me. Maybe I’ll introduce her to Weld, let him bring her out of her shell gently. He’s a fucking media darling, apparently; he’s probably had training on how to relate to people.

Matryoshka clams up, so I turn my attention back to Faultline.

“In addition to using Case-53s as enforcers, Cauldron also used them as part of the Nemesis program. Clients who purchased powers from them were given the option of purchasing a brainwashed Case-53 to serve as a rival and allow them to build up their reputation. The Case-53 in question would be programmed with an auto-lose trigger, and fight or flight conditioning that would force them to commit crimes. We have Cauldron paperwork that demonstrates this. There’s no way of knowing just how many captured Case-53 villains were participants in this program.”

Faultline pauses, her eyes darting briefly over Weld.

“Given the existence of Case-53s who don’t fit the psychological mould of Nemeses, I suspect many were also used as quick reinforcements for the Protectorate.”

Weld chuckles, a slightly metallic sound.

“I suppose it makes as much sense as anything. I can’t exactly see myself as anyone’s villain.”

He steps forwards, into the circle. He doesn’t have as much sheer physical presence as Chevalier, or even Faultline, but he has been trained in that sort of thing, and he knows how to hold himself.

“I believed in the Protectorate. Perhaps I still do. But I can no longer, in good conscience, remain part of it. I know Gully and Sanguine feel the same way. We’re leaving, and we’ll be recommending the other Case-53s do the same. We’re not looking for revenge over the Protectorate’s involvement,” he says, though his eyes wander to Gully, “but it’s about time we looked after our own interests.

He looks at the floor, his hands resting on his hips like he’s deep in thought.

“I trusted the Protectorate. Maybe I was supposed to trust them,” he nods at Faultline, “maybe that’s the reason I was put on this Earth. My trust made me overlook just how bad the others had it. I was lucky, in a way. I was photogenic enough that I didn’t get passed up for promotions,” he looks to the other two Protectorate Case-53s, glancing at me before his eyes land on Labyrinth, “and my powers were controllable enough to keep me out of Asylum East.”

He turns to regard Chevalier, his eyes only briefly passing over the Triumvirate.

“Whatever happens today, it’s clear to me that the Protectorate is not the place for Case-53s. You’ll never be able to root out all of Cauldron’s moles, and I’m not going to risk leaving anyone in their hands. I’ll be contacting every Case-53 in the Protectorate, and every one of the Case-53s who can be safely removed from the Asylums, and telling them the truth behind their origins.”

“The damage that would do-” Alexandria begins, only to be drowned out by the shouts. The hunchback girl, Gully, steps out of the crowd to stand next to Weld. She reverses her shovel and hammers the point into the ground. The sound of steel on concrete quiets the crowd, giving Weld the chance he needs to continue.

“I will not allow them to stay ignorant of the truth _you_ denied them. I can tell them that Cauldron is responsible for who they are, aided by agents within the PRT and Protectorate, or I can tell them that the PRT are responsible. The question you face, _Alexandria,_ is which organisation would you rather protect?”

“It’s not my decision to make.” She turns, looking over us and our injuries. Her gaze is cold, almost mechanical, like we’re just specimens in a lab for her to dissect.

“Cauldron would act to ensure their name isn’t spread. I am sure Faultline and her mercenaries can attest to the effectiveness of their principal agent.”

Faultline’s head slumps almost imperceptibly. It’s a little tell of hers; she’s scowling beneath the mask, but trying not to show it.

“She’s a combat thinker,” she begins. “More powerful than any I’ve ever encountered. She defeated us, completely unarmed, in a matter of seconds. Worse, there appears to be a predictive element to her powers. She knew exactly where we were, and exactly what she needed to do to dissuade us from acting.”

“No power is unbeatable,” Chevalier says, his head held high. He’s confident, but he never had to face _her._

“Weld,” he continues, “I understand your decision. If you want to split away, then do so with my blessing. I’ll ensure you’re still provided PRT support, without PRT oversight or control. Director Armstrong speaks highly of you, and I trust his judgement. Go with our blessing, and our _support._ ”

He turns to Alexandria.

“What that means is that we will be disseminating limited information on Cauldron. Weld will tell the other Case-53s what happened here, provided they do not disseminate that information to the public. Within the Protectorate, Cauldron’s activities will be kept on a strictly need-to-know basis while we root out anyone they may have compromised. We’ll keep Cauldron secret from the public, but any attempt to stop us disseminating information internally _will_ be seen as an act of war.”

Murmurs of protest rise up at his words, demands for total honesty and a public witch hunt. It’s a sign of the respect Chevalier holds that they all fall silent when he raises his hand.

“Every one of you joined the Protectorate because you believed in its principles and its mission. You believed in the need for a unified force to serve as the world’s first line of defence. You believed in the rule of law, to halting the slow decline of our world into Parahuman despotism. You have been paragons of virtue for others to follow; the light to guide others out of darkness. To give people _hope_ , when hope is scarce. I understand your frustrations, but I for one am not content to let the Protectorate be buried beneath the weight of _Cauldron’s_ sins.”

He pauses, turning for a moment to take in the whole crowd. He’s got them captivated. I’d be surprised if he isn’t running the show by the end of this.

“The Protectorate was founded on a lie,” he says, with a last dismissive glare at the Triumvirate. “But to the world, it embodies truth, justice, freedom and equality. If it falls, those virtues fall with it. And I for one do not intend to live in a world dominated by the militarism of the Red Gauntlet, by the anarchy of the African warlords, by the shadow-state of the Yangban or by whatever Machiavellian vision Cauldron seeks to bring about.”

Cheers erupt from the crowd. It really is quite impressive, what he’s managed to do here. The Protectorate could easily have collapsed from this, but instead he’s managed to take their pain and fear and twist it into new strength.

“I think our part here is done,” Faultline says, striding back over to us. “No need to stick around, and I don’t want to be here if anyone else decides to make any heroic speeches. I see enough of that nonsense on TV.”

“Just a second, boss,” I say, spotting Weld approaching. “Looks like we might have company.”

“Faultline,” Weld says, holding out his hand. His _left_ hand.

“I was hoping we could continue our discussion,” he says as they shake hands. “Perhaps somewhere more private?”

Faultline nods, turning back to look at the assembled mass of capes. Every one of them buoyed up by Chevalier’s enthusiasm, but any one of them could be a vial cape who’s just faking it. Not to mention the Triumvirate, who are in the midst of discussing some sort of staggered resignation and house arrest with Chevalier.

“I know somewhere that should work.”


	91. Deviant: 13.06

“Wow, Sonnie. You really did a number on the old place…”

Sun is streaming onto the floor through the great big hole in the roof. The building has been exposed to the elements for a while now, and there’s patches of standing water marring the old dance floor, the glossy surface warped and distorted by water damage. There’s normal damage too, from where me and Trainwreck had out little tussle. The bar is little more than a vague heap of broken bottles, the expensive drinks within having long since evaporated or merged with the bar itself. The sofas have miraculously survived the elements, protected from the water on their little raised floor and from the rain by what’s left of the roof.

“To be fair, the roof was Glory Girl. Besides, I feel like Bonesaw was at least half-responsible.”

It’s interesting, seeing how everyone reacts to the Palanquin in its diminished state. The Crew, myself included, look almost lost. This was our home for so long, and I don’t think its loss had fully sunken in yet. We’d been moving around too much to completely understand what it means when you don’t have a place to go back to, don’t have that same constant you can call home. Weld’s colleagues, the people who’ve never seen it before, aren’t interested in the building at all. To them, it’s just another broken shell of a place in a city full of them.

Weld himself… he’s looking around like he’s trying to build up a picture of what this place was like before Leviathan, before the Nine. Back when it was teeming with life, back when the outside world was shut away and the lights were dimmed into that timeless haze that can only be managed by strip clubs, pubs, nightclubs and casinos. Back when pounding beats spilled out onto the street, when upwards of a hundred people thronged together on the dance floor in a great warm mass of humanity. Back when we used to sit above it all, looking through the windows of the VIP area, before they were smashed free by biological and mechanical monsters.

It seems so long since then; it almost feels like a comforting dream.

“It must have been really something…” Weld says, his eyes passing over the broken scaffolding still holding up some of the high-powered lights.

“It really was,” Faultline replies, standing in the centre of the club as the rest of us move to sprawl across the sofas. She looks tired, more tired than I’ve ever seen her. She sunk so much of herself into this place but, in the end, we couldn’t stay here. We only hung on as long as we did out of _nostalgia_ ; out of the desperate belief that maybe everything could just go back to the way it was before.

But it can’t. Not after everything we’ve seen, everything we’ve done; nothing will ever be the same.

The first sign of that inevitability is sitting on the edge of the sofa, as far away from everyone else as he can get. Scrub. The _Merchant_ that followed us home. I don’t like him; I don’t like what he _represents._ Maybe it’s unfair to judge a man, a _teenager_ , I’ve never even spoken to, but he was _there_. Right in the heart of that fetid mass of humanity at its worst. It’s enough to make me wonder why he followed us, after we kicked the shit out of his precious _gang._ Then again, the Nine hit them worse. Killed them all, except for him.

Fuck, maybe it’s wrong of me to judge him for being there. After all, I was there too. In a past life. But that’s why I can’t stand to look at him.

Weld tried to sit on a sofa, only to immediately stand as it creaked and groaned under his metal mass. He had to settle for leaning against a pillar. He’s the second sign that we’ve crossed the point of no return, him and his heroes. The dividing line between hero and villain doesn’t seem as important to us now, not in the light of our shared experiences.

Monsters, one and all.

I’ve claimed a whole sofa for myself, sprawled out on it so that it has a chance at supporting my weight. I have to get back up and turn around as soon as I’ve sat down, so that my good eye is facing outwards, but once I’m comfortable I turn to Weld.

“I suppose now’s as good a time as any to spill the beans.”

Weld leans forwards a little; curious, but giving me the time to speak at my own pace.

“I used to roadie for a group of pit fighters in London. Not the London over there,” I sweep my arm out vaguely in the direction of the Atlantic, “a _different_ London. I got into some deep shit and I almost died, and my friends took some drastic measures to make sure I didn’t.”

Weld’s two Case-53s perked up once I mentioned I wasn’t from this dimension. They’re looking at me almost as intently as Weld.

“Now, I’m not talking about underground boxing or dogfighting or any of the shit that passes for blood sport in this dimension. Y’see, my world’s a lot more advanced in this one. Luna is an independent state and there’re colonies on Mars, that sort of thing. Basically all of it fuelled by biotechnology. On the lower end of that scale was Beastie Baiting; an illegal blood sport that pit bioengineered creatures against each other, all under the control of a human pilot.”

Pity’s creeping into Weld’s eyes now. It’s not what I wanted to see, but it’s what I was expecting. He really is a Hero, in every sense of the word.

“So I was dying, pretty fucking quickly, and our surgeon’s doing what she can to save me. I don’t know how long it took, but she realised she couldn’t save my body. So she stripped the control system out of our prototype beastie and spliced my brain into the gap. From then on, I took over as the fighter. Only difference was I was actually in the pit, actually fighting for my life. I called it my _edge_ ; the think that made me unbeatable.”

I take one look at Weld’s face before snorting in derision.

“Oh don’t look at me like that! Yeah it fucked me up, but that was practically a lifetime ago! I’m not that person anymore… Anyway, Cauldron abducted me after I slaughtered a fight promoter who tried to get me to take a dive, then tried to kill me when I didn’t. I still don’t know why, but they never wiped my memories. My working theory is that they thought I was some barely sapient animal.”

“Why would they think that?” the red-skinned Ward asks. I think Weld called him Sanguine?

“Well…” I say, more sheepish than someone my size has any right to be. “It wasn’t a _clean_ kill…”

“So, when the Protectorate had their Thinkers look at you,” Weld says, “they saw someone who wasn’t measurably a Parahuman, and jumped to the conclusion that you must have been made by a parahuman.”

“It’s easier to believe than an interdimensional refugee, you must admit,” I smirk, just a little.

“Now that everyone’s all caught up,” Faultline begins, stepping over from the dance floor and slumping gracelessly into an armchair, “we can begin. The first thing you need to know is that there was something we didn’t tell the Protectorate.”

She takes off her helmet, surprising the three Wards, and letting it fall to the floor. It might be a gesture of solidarity; nobody else is wearing a mask. Well, except for Spitfire, but she takes hers off shortly after the boss. Faultline looks over at Matryoshka, and gets a small nod in return. I saw her talking to Weld on the walk over here, but I didn’t intrude. Whatever he said to her, it seems to have gotten her comfortable enough to talk. Maybe it’s because she’s surrounded by monsters, rather than capes.

“We didn’t just learn about Cauldron’s presence in Madison, we went there. Cauldron intercepted us before we could investigate the ruined facility, but we did encounter a survivor. Matryoshka.”

It’s interesting, how the Wards react. Sanguine flinches back, Weld carefully and deliberately doesn’t show any reaction at all, but Gully leans forwards, _fascinated._

“You remember,” she begins, eagerness clear in her deep voice.

“I do…” Matryoshka, in comparison, is almost silent. She wants to talk, she _needs_ to talk, but that doesn’t make it any easier to take the first step.

“It was a… a research facility. I don’t know what they were researching or why; that’s not the sort of information a scientist tells a lab rat. I wasn’t always there. At first, I was in a different part of the compound, or a different compound altogether. After a year, they asked me to choose a name. I refused, but they named me anyway and moved me through a portal to a different cell, in the research facility.”

She hesitates, wringing her hands. Her flesh splits and reforms, ribbons briefly rippling across her skin as she tries and fails to hold herself together.

“They made me a monster… gave me powers… made me use them. I… I…”

This is difficult for her.

“It’s not your fault,” Weld says in a soft and comforting tone. “You aren’t responsible for what they made you do.”

“You think I didn’t tell myself that?” Matryoshka snaps. “It doesn’t help.”

She sighs, her head lolling.

“I didn’t choose my name. I didn’t choose to be the one they used to punish the other subjects. I didn’t choose any of it, but that can’t save me from my guilt.”

She leans back in her seat, holding a hand up in front of her face and unspooling it into a mass of ribbons.

“The people of Madison called me the Devourer. It’s a fitting enough name. I… I _consume_ people. I take them into my body, where they are digested. The process is slow, a little over two hours, so the scientists would have me hold other subjects in there for half an hour, an hour, sometimes for longer. To punish them when they failed their tests.”

She looks up, her eyes darting over the group. Looking for how we’re reacting. A few are looking away; Sanguine, Newter, Emily and Elle, but she hardly counts. Weld isn’t, and neither am I. I meet her gaze head on; I understand what it’s like to have regrets burning a hole in your heart, to be afraid that you’d be shunned if you ever opened up about them.

“My power… it doesn’t just leech away their life. It leeches languages, emotions, knowledge, _memories._ Every time it does, those new memories supplant a little more of the person I was before. I remember… moments from hundreds of different lives. Stolen memories, stolen hopes. But most of it is fear. The memory that’s strongest in their mind; the fear they felt as they were dragged through the halls to be thrown to the monster.”

She’s not crying, but I think that might be because she’s physically incapable of it.

“I remember _her_. _Alexandria._ Flying to the rescue of a dying man, only to hand him over to be mutated and experimented on.” She turns to Shamrock, looking her in the eyes even though I can see how much it hurts. “I remember _you._ You were younger, then. I… the girl shared your dorm room. She was only pretending to be asleep, when they came. You were sold to Cauldron, you and everyone in that room.”

Shamrock drops her head, as Gregor loops a comforting arm around her shoulder. She wrings her hands a little, but otherwise doesn’t react. She really doesn’t see any of the person she was in the person she is today…

“How many others were there?” Weld asks, breaking the silence.

“I don’t know,” Matryoshka says. “I’ve personally seen dozens, maybe over a hundred but they cycled them through the facility. With my… with _their_ memories… Hundreds, at least. Maybe thousands.”

“More than were ever released onto Earth Bet, by an order of magnitude.”

“We can’t just leave them there,” Gully practically snarls.

“If you intend to fight Cauldron,” Faultline begins, “you need to be careful. Their combat thinker is exceptionally powerful. She tracked us down effortlessly, and knew exactly what she needed to do to break us. If it weren’t for this clusterfuck, we’d have abandoned our search altogether. My working theory is that they either have a powerful precognitive on staff, or the combat thinker _is_ a powerful precog.”

“Right now, our concerns are a little more immediate,” Weld says, turning his attention to Faultline. “We’re breaking away from the Protectorate. That means we need to establish ourselves as an independent force. My idea was to sell ourselves as heroic mercenaries to Protectorate departments or cities in need of reinforcements. Now, I’ve had leadership training through the Protectorate, but when it comes to the financial side of things, I’m sort of out of the loop.”

Faultline nods, pulling a business card out of her costume and scribbling a trio of phone numbers on it.

“The first number is for one of my accountants, one of the more legal ones. The second is for an old contact of mine who went into security consulting. He can help you find your feet in the industry. Just tell him I’m calling in the favour he owes me for the Charleston job. The last number is the law firm in New York that I use. They specialise in… the other side of the law, but they should be willing to accommodate you, or willing to recommend you to someone who can.”

“Thank you,” Weld says, taking the card before fumbling awkwardly at his skin-tight costume and its complete lack of pockets. Gully snorts, snatching the card out of his hands and tucking it away in her own, marginally more practical, costume.

“We intend to bring the Protectorate Case-53s under one banner,” Weld continues. “The Irregulars. It means that, if the chance ever comes to strike at Cauldron directly, we’ll be able to move as one. It’s like Gully said; we can’t leave so many people in their hands, and we can’t ignore them. We could use your help, and not just in finding our feet.”

Faultline stands up abruptly, turning to look over us.

“I need to talk to my team, in private. We’ll be upstairs, in the VIP room. If there’s anything behind the bar that survived Shatterbird, you’re welcome to it.”

“I understand,” Weld says, as Sanguine leaps up from his seat and makes a beeline for the bar. “It’s a big decision to make.”

The VIP room is, somehow, even worse off than the main floor. Me and Trainwreck were really throwing it down in here, and there are very few seats left intact. The short set of stairs and corridor into our living space is surprisingly intact, but that’s only because we were punching through the walls instead of the corridor. Newter finds an intact seat almost immediately, and the rest of us perch where we can. Faultline takes a second to gather her thoughts, emotion clear on her face, before speaking.

“We’re not going to have to worry about money anymore,” she begins, looking between Labyrinth and Scrub. “If I know Tattletale, and I do, she’ll have made sure that the Undersiders own the land the portal is built on. The government won’t stand for it, but there’s not much they can do legally. Except buy a portal of their own. There’ll be restrictions, of course. Probably something about never opening up portals to inhabited worlds, but we’ll still come out rich. Billions of dollars, at least. Enough that we’d never need to work another day in our lives.”

She pauses, her hand resting on her hip, before her eyes dart over us all.

“We could retire, here and now. But that’s not who I am, and I don’t think it’s who you are either. You all have a choice to make; what do you want out of your lives? If you want to leave and join Weld’s group, I’d understand.” Her eyes focus on our Case-53s, on Gregor in particular. “You’ve spent so much of your life looking for answers. Now that you’ve found them, it’s time to decide what you want to do next.”

“I…” Matryoshka is the first to speak, flinching a little as everyone’s attention lands on her. “I think I’m going to join Weld. I’m sorry; you all seem like good people, but I… I have a lot of guilt inside me, and maybe if I help the other monsters, I can start to overcome it?”

“I understand,” Faultline says, gently. “When we first met, I told you that you didn’t have to stay with us if you didn’t want to. Weld will look after you.”

Matryoshka nods in gratitude, before standing up and heading back down the stairs to where her new team is waiting. It’s an important step for her, and I hope she finds the peace she’s looking for.

“I’m not leaving,” Gregor rumbles to himself. “I have received answers to my questions. I know the truth behind my origins, even if I do not know who I was before. With that gone, all that is left is my loyalty to you. I will follow you, Faultline. Whatever you decide.”

He pauses for a moment, his eyes darting across to Shamrock.

“No, that isn’t true. It was, for a very long time, but I have found other… _focuses_ now. I find myself thinking of the scale of Cauldron, but what we have now is… pleasant.

“So long as we find another club,” Newter says, a little flippantly, “I’ll be golden.” I don’t think he means it, but trying to get him to open up is like squeezing water from a stone.

“I’m done drifting,” Emily says, a slight scowl on her face. “I’ve been alone before, and I’m not going to do it again. This is the only family I have, and I’m not going to lose it.”

“Neither am I,” I say, conviction in my voice. “Finding all of you was the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t want to see it break apart.”

“I-” Scrub starts, before I shoot him a withering glare that has him recoiling back in his seat. Spitfire cuffs me around the back of the head, and gestures for the Merchant to continue.

“I’m done drifting, too,” He says, white smoke curling out of his mouth as he talks. “I get that I’m the new guy here, and that you probably only snatched me up because of the portal, but I’m sick of sleeping in ruins surrounded by junkies, or changing places every night because I’m fucking terrified that Crawler will crawl out of that bombed out shitshow downtown and try and finish what he started. Sticking with a _sane_ group and getting out of this fucking city sounds like it’d be a welcome break…”

“I don’t want to leave,” Shamrock says, “but I also don’t want to leave everyone in Cauldron. There are so many people in there, and the only difference between me and them is a spot of good luck.”

“Yeah…” Newter says, looking serious for once in his life. “We’re some of the only people on the world who actually know what’s going on. I just… I can’t picture myself chilling in a club, or playing games, while they’re still prisoners. It feels… _wrong_ , you know?”

“I agree,” Faultline says, to my surprise. “I know our investigation was funded from your pay checks, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t personally invested. It’s hard to know people for the better part of two years and not empathise with their plight. We no longer have a financial need to take work, and all that leaves is what we want to get out of life. From the looks of things,” she takes a last look over all of us, “it seems that what we really want is to stay together. We can’t do that with Cauldron’s shadow hanging over our heads, so we need to act against them.”

Idly she reaches down with her hand, unconsciously brushing it over her holstered pistol and the throwing knives hidden in the folds of her costume.

“It’ll be the hardest job we’ve ever taken. We’ll have to find a way to build up resources without actually acting against Cauldron directly, not until either us or the Irregulars have found a countermeasure to their precog. This is one decision I can’t make on my own. I need to know if you’re with me.”

“I’m with you, boss,” I say, surprising everyone, myself included. After about a moment, my thoughts catch up with my mouth. I’m not one for politics or causes, but I’ve seen what Cauldron’s done to the people I care about. It’s not just the Crew, it’s people like Weld as well. Maybe this is one cause that’s worth my time…

My words are the catalyst for a flurry of nods and agreements. Even Scrub nods his head, albeit more than a little reluctantly. I think he’s desperate enough for some constancy in his life that he’s willing to go along our probably suicidal scheme.

Faultline pauses, and I think I see tears in her eyes.

“I want you to know that I’m proud of how far you’ve come. None of you are the same people you were when I found you. You’ve grown from the outcasts and screwups of the world into a cohesive fighting force. More than that, each and every one of you has grown as people. It warms my heart that you have chosen to stick by me throughout everything we’ve endured, and it’s long past time I returned the favour.”

She looks around the room, taking in the faded remains of our former home.

“Faultline’s Crew is insufficient for the task at hand. The name is an anachronism that should have been replaced the moment we started to expand. It’s time to set that name aside for one that’s more about who we are as an organisation, while also keeping that connection to our past. Palanquin.”


	92. Interlude 13: Scrub

Grandpa never talked about Vietnam. He didn’t keep in touch with the men from his old unit, didn’t keep any of his gear, or trophies, or medals, if he won any. He didn’t talk about it when he was alive, he didn’t talk about it when cancer started eating away at his lungs. He didn’t even talk about it on his deathbed, and then it was far too late to say anything.  
  
It was always mom who talked about it. Well, shouted about it. She avoided him as much as she could, but, whenever they met, she’d always start shouting at him. Calling him a murderer, a baby killer, a fascist. She couldn’t stand to be near him. She and dad argued about him almost every week, and it only got worse as his health got worse. Even after he died, she refused to go to the funeral. I think that was what finally made dad leave.  
  
After a while, I started to look into all the stuff mom used to shout at him. I felt like I never really knew him, and it seemed like the only way I could learn. I couldn’t believe it when I found out he’d been part of a massacre at a village called My Lai. I just couldn’t reconcile the quiet man I knew with the photos of bodies lining the roads, with court martials that didn’t go anywhere and international scandal that did.  
  
I used to wonder what was going through his head, what could possibly have made him go along with something so horrible? Wasn’t there a point where he said enough was enough? Where he realised he’d gone too far, that he needed to stop? I just couldn’t get how someone could do something like that, come back, raise a family and never tell anyone about what he did. Didn’t it all taste like ash in his mouth?  
  
I still don’t know why he didn’t talk, but I can guess. As to why he didn’t stop, that’s something I understand now.  
  
I knew getting in with the Merchants was a bad idea. I knew it was the wrong thing to do, that mom and dad would hate me for it, but I did it anyway. I don’t regret that decision, or, at least, I don’t _think_ I do. The world got turned on its head by Leviathan. It’s like that monster turned the clock back a thousand years, back when the only thing that mattered was who had the biggest sword. I saw the people who tried to cling to the way things were before, saw that broken look in their eyes as they desperately flocked to the refugee camps.  
  
I saw the people who could see which way the wind was blowing. The people who chose to change with the changing world. I saw what they did to those desperate refugees, saw expensive jewellery, hundreds of dollars in cash, keys to broken cars or even simple human dignity traded away for food that’s supposedly theirs by ‘right’. But what do rights matter, when there’s no one around to enforce them? In school, they talked about rights like they were some sacred, indestructible thing, but that’s bullshit. They’re just words on a piece of paper.  
  
I saw these people, the oppressors and the oppressed, and it didn’t take me long to figure out which I’d rather be. So I found a couple of friends from school and we started hanging out with a bunch of guys, half of them at least twice our age. We helped them out when they got into fights, whether or not they were actually in danger. We ran errands for them, stayed out of their way when they were high or drunk or venting their anger on one of the girls. It’s wasn’t clean, or honest, but at least we were dry and sometimes warm. At least we had a roof over our heads. At least we were the ones doing the beatings, rather than the ones being beat.  
  
After a while, all of these little gangs of opportunists started to band together. Word started being passed around that some of the squatters were organising, that they were building a new gang. One for all the people the old city had left behind. It wasn’t anything formal, there wasn’t any sudden moment where we all decided to start calling ourselves Merchants – closest it ever came was a couple of old union guys who used to go from group to group with talk about how we were the vanguard of some inevitable revolution.  
  
But the Merchants came all the same, just as soon as we realised how many of us there were. We still weren’t organised, but we started to recognise each other. We still fought, but never when the other gangs were nearby. We didn’t really have any leaders, but everyone knew that, if one of the capes ever showed up, we were to do exactly what they told us to. We started to meet, and eventually Skidmark decided to set up the trials.  
  
Suddenly there was a hierarchy. Suddenly our worth was decided by the number of coloured bands around our wrist. If you had them, you got cheaper drugs, you got first pick of the loot, maybe you even got a girl who’d pretend to enjoy fucking you in exchange for protection, because she knows the bands mean you’re tough as shit and have been through hell.  
  
We knew things were changing, we knew our fucked-up little society was being rebuilt around us, and we didn’t want to be stuck on the bottom of whatever new hierarchy emerged from the mess. We were too late to try the test of courage, the yellow band, we couldn’t find anyone why knew where the near-death experience was, the black band, but we did manage to find a couple of guys who were able to point us towards the mall. To the red band, the test of blood.  
  
That’s when I first started to realise just how far down the rabbit hole I’d gone. In that fucking pit, with my ‘friends’ unwilling or unable to help, I started to realise that I was stuck here, surrounded by all this violence and death, and that I’d never be able to get out. It was horrifying, terrifying, and I fell to the ground, the crowd beating me down or even just trampling over me as they try to fight someone else.  
  
And then I was surrounded by blood and bisected bodies, by screams and shouts as the crowd that had been smothering me suddenly sprinted back, afraid of the uncontrolled bursts of energy that cut away skin and bone and clothes but left terrain and buildings completely intact. I had powers, I was a _cape_ but I could hardly even think as I was brought right up to the base of the stage, brought even higher and into the ranks of the Merchant’s elite. It was what I’d gone there to find, but the victory was a hollow one.  
  
And then those mercenaries attacked, and everything went to shit. They didn’t even bother to call the cops on us, just took the case and the paperwork and fucked off. Skidmark was pissed, Skidmark was humiliated, Skidmark was fucking _furious_ and I started to realise that if he wanted to drag us all to war with Faultline and her “harem of bitches and freaks” then there wasn’t anything I could do to stop him. I had powers, but I was just as helpless as I’d ever been.  
  
And then the Nine came to town, Shatterbird sang, and the world was turned on its head all over again.  
  
I don’t know how many people are in the crowd. Hundreds, maybe even over a thousand. More than were ever at the mall, more than I’ve ever seen in one place. With the Nine here, everyone in the city is scrambling for what safety they can find. For Skidmark, that means a chance to expand the Merchants even further. There are coffins spread out all down the road, hundreds of them. Another trial in the making.  
  
I never understood how my Grandfather could end up participating in something so horrible, but I do now. There’s no one defining moment that’s led me to standing here, next to the Merchant capes. The _other_ Merchant capes; I’m one of them now. I just followed along as things slowly got worse and worse, not caring so long as I wasn’t the one getting hurt, and now I _can’t_ turn back. I’m in too deep.  
  
There’s a tremendous noise overhead, as Squealer’s helicopter flies right down the length of the street, before turning at the end to reveal Skidmark standing right on the nose of the aircraft, his cape blowing in the wind. The helicopter itself is a bulbous thing, three times the size it should be, held up by seven immense rotor blades set beneath the main body of the aircraft.  
  
“Which one of you dripping rectal cysts is brave enough for this one!?” Skidmark shouts, the microphone in his hand broadcasting his voice through the sound system we had the gang set up all along the road.  
  
The roar from the crowd is enough to drown out the sound of the helicopter, almost enough to drown out Skidmark’s voice through the speakers. Whether they came her for the thrill of it, to rise through the Merchants or just to surround themselves with capes in the hope it’ll save them from the Nine, Skidmark has got them hooked. They’re trapped now, just like I was. Like I still am.  
  
“Green armband means poison, and this is a poison half of you wastes of air have already tasted! We’re gonna make it as bad as it gets! The worst of bad trips!”  
  
He holds out a bowl and tosses the contents into the air, a small rain of pills or shards of crystal coated with assorted dusts.  
  
“One handful, then you take a nap in one of the coffins we have up here. Moment the lid shuts, you’ll find out what’s in store for you. Some have rats, some have spiders, some have nothing at all and some…”  
  
A weapon mounted beneath the nose of the aircraft fires, a beam of light shooting out and striking the ground. Chunks of earth go flying and, when the beam shuts off, a coffin slides into the newly-made hole, followed by an avalanche of gravel.  
  
“Get buried alive!”  
  
The crowd shout again, raw and bloodthirsty. Some are already high, of course, others are eager for any sort of fix, even if it’s the sort of fix that’s meant to make them OD. Most, though. Most are caught up in the moment, following the crowd because it’s what everyone else is doing.  
  
My power fires off, a random patch of air flashing off to my right. For all that I’m part of the Merchants, it’s not safe for them to be near me. I can’t aim my power. Can’t even chose when it fires. Sometimes I feel like control is only just out of my reach, but I haven’t been able to find it yet. I just destroy anything that gets near me that isn’t part of the landscape. I may be part of the Merchants, but my power keeps most of them away from me. It’s not safe.  
  
Which is why Skidmark wants me to walk up and down the lines of coffins, to let my power fire randomly and add that little extra bit of danger to his challenge. I know people will die, I know _I’ll_ kill them, but I can’t stop it. Not here, not surrounded by so many others.  
  
“Hope you rancid pukes have friends to dig you up! Put up with that shit while you’re on the trip of your life, and you get yourselves a green fucking armband! For the rest of the night, everything is as free as your mother’s pussy! For as long as you hold on to that baby, anything you buy direct from one of us head honchos is ten percent off! So which-”  
  
He stops. There’s a burst of feedback as the microphone falls, then a harsh screech as it rolls off the nose and into the spinning rotor below. Skidmark’s hand goes to clutch his stomach, and I can see blood flowing freely down his stained blue costume. More cuts appear, all along his body, and he collapses, crawling desperately towards the back of the helicopter even as his fingers are severed from his hand.  
  
The aircraft lurches, as a line of crimson appears across Squealer’s throat, and Skidmark starts to slide away on a surface made slick with his own blood. He uses his power, desperately trying to push himself back onto a solid footing, but it’s too late. He falls straight into the blades of the propeller, instantly pulped into a bloody mass.  
  
The crowd panics, starting to run, but we’ve blocked the alleyways to stop people leaving our test. I want to run too, but I can’t I’m frozen in place, looking at the distant figures that just jumped off the roof on the other side of the road. The Slaughterhouse are _here!_  
  
I’m too short to see over the crowd, but I can hear the screams, can see the sprays of blood and bodies, can even see the occasional glimpse of one of the Nine as they start to work their way through the captive audience we’ve given them. Some of the Merchant capes, the brave or suicidal, start to rush into combat. I don’t. I freeze, horror slowly building in my heart, before turning to run, my power flaring freely all around me.  
  
I guess this is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. It takes the fucking _Slaughterhouse Nine_ to get me to cut my losses and run. Maybe I’ll try and sign on with one of the other gangs, but I don’t have time for long term thinking at the moment. Fuck, if it got me out of here, I’d throw myself at the feet of the fucking Protectorate and beg to be sent to prison.  
  
The aircraft spins uncontrollably, a white blur smashing into the cockpit, before slamming down into the middle of the crowd, slicing through dozens of people before bursting into flame as the fuel tanks detonate in quick succession. A woman perches on top of a rotor blade that’s jutting out of the wreckage, pattered from head to toe with black and white stripes. She takes a second to look around, before leaping into the crowd.  
  
I’m running towards the blocked alleyway, hoping that my power won’t consider our hastily improvised barricade as part of the landscape. It can be frustratingly vague when it comes to what my power actually decides to destroy. Behind me, I can hear the sounds of a monster tearing through the crowd, and I know it’s too late to run. I have to fight, if only to buy a little time.  
  
Crawler is striding through the flames, a black beast as big as a van with six limbs and a body covered in eyes and sharp tentacles. He’s surrounded by bodies, roaring as he makes a beeline towards any Parahuman he sees. With my glowing eyes, hair and mouth emanating steady plumes of unnaturally white smoke, it’s not really surprising that he charges right towards me. Just terrifying.  
  
Crawler charges towards me, only for a white flash to appear miraculously close to his leg, cutting a perfectly spherical gouge into the limb that has Crawler stumbling for a moment. At first, I’m shocked that I’m even able to hurt Crawler, but then he roars at me. That’s not pain in his voice, it’s _satisfaction._ He’s an invincible masochist, and I’m his next _fix._  
  
The limb has regenerated in seconds, and Crawler starts to eagerly pace towards me as my power takes more and more chunks out of him, chunks that regenerate just as fast as his leg. He’s toying with me, trying to pen me in so that I don’t have anywhere to run to, so that I have no other option than to keep using my power on him. I reach into myself, pushing my power is easier than trying to stop it, and fill the air around me with white flashes, carving chunk after chunk out of Crawler.  
  
Eventually, _miraculously_ , my power takes a chunk our of Crawler’s head, revealing a cross section of brain, a skull six inches thick and the inside of his jaw. He drops to thr ground like a puppet with his strings cut and I don’t wait to see if he can regenerate from that. Instead I run, leaping through the broken window of an abandoned store and sprinting through the corridors until I’m out on the next road over. I keep running, and I don’t stop until I hit the bay.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
We’ve only been out of the plane for a few minutes, and the heat is already unbearable. The Texas sun is relentless, and the vehicles they picked us up in have been sitting under that heat for an hour, at least. Apart from a single trip to Florida when I was a lot younger, I’ve never even left New England. Unfortunately, there’s not much hear to really enjoy. Lackland AFB looks just like any other airport in the country. The only difference is that just about everybody is wearing a uniform.  
  
My own ‘costume’, if you can call it that, is a light grey version of the uniforms the soldiers are wearing, with a bulletproof vest and extra bits of Kevlar on my arms and legs. It’s comfortable enough, but anything would be comfortable after months without regular access to laundry. Parts of the outfit have been highlighted with white patches and lines, mirroring the white smoke that cascades out of my eyes, mouth, ears and rises up from my hair. Sometimes I find myself wondering how I can see through it, or why it doesn’t set off smoke detectors or sprinklers, but I guess powers don’t exactly need to make sense.  
  
There’s a pistol holster attached to the belt of my outfit, but it’s empty and will stay empty until Faultline’s happy that I can use a pistol without shooting myself in the foot. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my new boss, it’s that she’s thorough about that sort of thing. She’s even got me going through an exercise regimen to put some muscle on my wiry, half-starved, figure. Still, I can’t deny the results. I haven’t been able to ride in a car since I got powers; I always ended up unintentionally taking a chunk out of something important and causing the whole thing to grind to a halt. But Faultline taught me a couple of techniques they’d tried using on Labyrinth, and I no longer go off if I don’t want to.  
  
Our little convoy pulls into a nondescript warehouse a little way from the main runway, where about a dozen assorted suits and uniforms are already waiting for us. I’m in the back of the lead car, with Labyrinth sitting next to me and Faultline up front with the driver. The rest of Palanquin are in a couple more vehicles behind us. As I step out, the hit hits me again, but at least the warehouse is shaded from the sun. I hang back with Labyrinth, as Faultline walks up to the suits. One of them steps up out of the group, his hair clipped short and a flag pin on his lapel.  
  
“Good afternoon, Faultline,” he begins, cheerfully, “I hope your flight was alright? I’m Rashed Moore, with the Department of the Interior. With me are Jonathan Romero of the Department of Energy, Bryn Harper of the Department of Defence, General Benson, who was kind enough to lend us the use of his airbase, and some spooky woman from Homeland Security who wouldn’t tell me her name.”  
  
“It seems I’ve become popular, as of late.”  
  
“Well, that’s politics for you. You’ve got a hot new thing, and we’re all scrambling to get in on the ground floor. Now, I’m assuming you want to get the formalities over and done with before you start?”  
  
“No need for that,” Faulline says, waving Gregor forwards. “It takes a while for us to set up, we might as well talk at the same time.”  
  
Gregor places a gentle hand on Labyrinth’s shoulder, lading her into the centre of the hanger where she starts work on the tower that’s going to form the structure of the portal itself.  
  
“Proactive,” Mr Moore smiles, “I like it!” he gestures to one of the suits, who hands over a plain folder to Faultline.  
  
“It took calls to no less than forty-seven different district and US attorneys, but we’ve had all the outstanding charges against you and the other members of Palanquin dropped. We’ve also transferred the absurd sum of money we agreed on into your accounts.”  
  
“We provide a unique service,” Faultline retorts. “You’re paying for that uniqueness.”  
  
“But not for exclusivity,” the suit notes. “Still, I think it was worth it. We can’t have the only interdimensional portal on US soil owned by a criminal syndicate, after all. Now then, as for your side of the bargain…”  
  
“Palanquin has access to a rare combination of powers that allows us to punch a hole into a _single_ other dimension, named Earth Gimel.” Faultline states like she’s reading off some legal boilerplate.  
  
“Reassuring Aleph that we’re not going to open up a portal in the White House and send the Triumvirate through to kill their President,” the Homeland Security spook speaks up for the first time. “In return, we’ll clarify the Haywire accords at the UN to recognise that they only prohibit opening portals to _inhabited_ worlds. Not that it matters, because you can only open portals to Gimel.”  
  
“Exactly,” Faultline replies, both of them lying through their teeth. Sure, we’re never going to _sell_ anything other than Gimel portals, but I know full well that we’re keeping our options open. Just in case.  
  
Labyrinth’s tower is fully formed now, looking like a church spire that’s growing out of the ground. She steps back, and Faultline gives me the nod to move forwards. I let my power loose, white flashes appearing randomly around me. I can turn my power on or off now, but I still have absolutely no control over _where_ the blasts are going to go. It’s just a case of walking forwards until one of them just happens to touch somewhere Labyrinth has transformed.  
  
When it does, the whole structure goes up in a white flash, leaving a void of white space that’s blindingly bright but casts no light. Faultline leads Labyrinth up to the void, waiting while she finds the right world. Space flickers and shimmers, fractured images of a myriad of worlds passing into view, before opening up on a featureless expanse of scrubland, untouched by human hands.  
  
“Congratulations,” one of the suits says to the Energy Department guy, “you’ve just doubled the size of the Mid-Continent Oil Field.”  
  
Easiest billion dollars I’ve ever made.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
I didn’t realise how much I’d missed the little things. Sleeping in a warm room with glass in the windows, turning the tap and knowing with all certainty that water will come out, and that it might even be drinkable. I’ve missed electricity as a certainty, rather than a rare luxury, and freshly laundered sheets on my bed. It really feels like I’ve stepped out of some kind of nightmare and back into the real world. I’ve got my own hotel room, free from junkies or crackheads or _Skidmark_.  
  
It’s comfortable, almost _luxurious_ , and for the first time in a long time I don’t have to worry about someone robbing me in my sleep. I’ve stepped out of Wonderland, and back into the real world. No Slaughterhouse Nine, no Merchants, just a comfortable bed and a group of people who, even if they’re a little cold and distant to me, aren’t complete _bastards_ who’d stab me in the back over a couple of pills.  
  
As I drift off to sleep, I feel like, for the first time in a long time, I’m really safe. The nightmare is over.  
  
 _  
  
Something’s pressing down on my chest._  
  
  
  
I wake with a start, trying to bold out of the bed only to find myself held down by a clawed hand on my chest. I open my eyes, only to find myself staring into the face of a monster, a single grey eye with a slit-like black pupil, and a gaping hole where another eye should be. The top of its head is armoured, with a wicked pointed tip at the end of a crest, inches away from my face. Its maw is open, breathing hot and fetid air as past two rows of irregular spiked teeth. It speaks, not from its mouth but from a voice box embedded into the side of its throat.  
  
“I’ve been meaning to have a little chat with you, _Merchant._ ”  
  
I panic, and my power flares up, a white flash appearing on the ceiling. Khanivore doesn’t seem to care that it could have hit her, instead leaning even closer and turning her head to better see me with her one good eye.  
  
“Y’see, I get why Faultline took you in. You’re useful to us, you can get us a lot of _money_ and we can use that money to get what we really want out of life, but what I want is what I already have. I want this little family of mine to stay whole and healthy, and I’ve got a little worry _screaming_ in my head that says you might be a threat to that.”  
  
My power flares again, over the sink. My toothbrush, toothpaste and an unopened bottle of soda disappear, leaving the sink behind. I’m desperately running through Faultline’s techniques in my head, trying to get my power back under control. Khanivore might not give a shit if she lives or dies, but Faultline absolutely would. Like she said, it’s _their_ family. I’m still the outsider.  
  
“I know you, Merchant. I know how you _think_. I know why you were in that fucking pit, because I’ve been there too. And there’s no way I’d let the person I was back then anywhere near Elle, or Emily, or any of the others. They deserve _better_ than that.”  
  
“You think I don’t know that?” I shout as another flash appears, uncomfortably close to her. “You think I don’t want to forget any of that shit ever happened? I fucked up! Is that what you want to hear? I got caught up in something, and, by the time I wised up and realised how bad things were, I was fucking _stuck_!”  
  
She pauses, tilting her head a little.  
  
“Whatever the fuck you might _think_ , joining Palanquin was the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to me, and I _know_ it, even if all of you ignore me and treat me like a piece of shit. At least here I’m _safe_!”  
  
Khanivore is silent for a few moments, long enough for me to get my power under control so that I don’t accidentally _eviscerate_ my teammate. After a while, she removes her hand from my chest and paces over to my open door. She pauses, turning back to look at me with her one good eye.  
  
“Go back to sleep, Scrub. We’ve got a flight to catch in the morning.”  
  
I barely catch the words she mutters to herself as she steps out of the room.  
  
“Never thought I’d get to see this from the _outside_ …”  
  
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?


	93. Gateways: 14.01

In what I’m beginning to suspect might become a pattern, there’s a small entourage waiting to meet us at the airport. Soldiers flank the group, dressed in a strange, almost pinkish, camouflage, as well as a couple of more smartly-dressed ones flanking the chief toady. The main man himself, and they are all men, is dressed in robes, with a long white headdress flowing down his back. What draws my eye, though, isn’t the soldiers or the suits or the man in his robe, it’s the Cape.

Standing off to the side, next to one of the officers in the nice uniforms, is man armoured from head to toe in a suit of plate that looks like it was grown out of crystal, rather than made. It flows the contours of his skin perfectly, and seems to shift and flow with his movements. Is he a Case-53, or is that armour just how his powers work? No real way of knowing, I guess, but it’s our job to keep an eye out for this. Well, I suppose our _job_ is to keep Labyrinth and Scrub safe while they work their magic. This shady backroom shit is more of a side-hobby.

“Miss Faultline,” the dignitary says, stepping forward to shake her hand. “A pleasure to finally meet you in person, and may I be the first to welcome you to Muscat.”

“The pleasure is all mine. After all, I suspect I shall leave your beautiful city a great deal richer than I found it.”

Faultline isn’t wearing a mask. Instead she’s accessorised her costume with a wide-brimmed hat against the frankly unbearable heat. It’s a sign of the times; a costumed villain can’t run a multibillion-dollar corporation, even if that corporation only employs seven capes, a law firm and a decent-sized force of accountants. They have to take the mask off first.

“I suspect we will all benefit, given time,” the flunky smiles. “We’ve put you up on the top floor of the Grand Hyatt. It’s close enough to the Ministry for Oil and Gas to be readily accessible for the negotiations, while also being one of the best hotels in the city.”

“I appreciate your courtesy,” Faultline says, politely. That sort of polite but inane conversation is the sort of thing that’s going to be occupying her for the next few days. With the US, we charged massively under value because we wanted to get the feds off our back, and to make sure that the UN didn’t crack down on our business before we could find our feet. But now that we _are_ a business, and a perfectly legitimate one at that, we can fleece our clients for all they’re worth.

“As we appreciate your custom,” the deputy minister – maybe. I never did read up on just who exactly we’re supposed to be meeting – replies, all false smiles and good cheer. I’ve never been happier to be left out of the negotiations; there’s no way in hell I’d be able to fight in _this_ particular arena.

The local turns a little, gesturing to the convoy of vehicles behind him.

“I am sure you’re eager to get out of the heat, and General Gardiner is no doubt eager to get you to your destination safely.”

He nods to one of the officers, a clean-shaven man in the same formal uniform as the other military types. He’s not a local, though, and he speaks with a noticeable Scottish brogue to his voice.

“Indeed, sir.” He turns to Faultline. “I’ll be handling security for the negotiations, ma’am. Rest assured, my boys will keep you and yours as safe as houses.”

“Glad to hear it, General,” the boss shakes his hand, before moving off to the convoy. Faultline, is riding in a very posh-looking car with the chief local, while just about everyone else is taking their places in a number of black SUVs. Everyone, that is, except for me. I’d never fit in the back of one of those, so I make my way to an armoured truck at the back of the convoy, a military vehicle large enough to comfortably fit me. The armoured cape heads to the same vehicle, stepping in ahead of me. To my surprise, the General follows him in.

Inside, as I thought, there’s just about enough space to be comfortable, but there’s also radio equipment set up at the front. I guess it makes sense for the Scot to coordinate things from here. Plus, I suppose it keeps him near to the other Cape. I wait on the floor as the convoy sets off into the city, holding my tongue until the officer seems a little less distracted.

“So, what brings a guy like you to a place like this?”

“She talks!” the General exclaims. “I had begun to think you were one of those insufferable strong and silent types.”

I swear I saw him give a pointed look to the Cape, who just sits there, completely impassive beneath his crystalline armour.

“Not me,” I smirk back at him. “Can’t keep my trap shut, that’s my problem.”

“I’m hear on loan service, actually,” he says by way of an explanation, “from the Royal Marines. We,” he says, probably meaning Britain, “keep up fairly healthy relations with Oman. It’s a little bit of realpolitik; stable nations in this part of the world are few and far between. Part of the reason the locals are so excited about your group is that a lot of the major oilfields are under the hands of various warlords, and _defending_ the shipments has started to cost more than the value of the shipments themselves.”

“Still seems a bit excessive to have a _General_ running security on this,” I say, fishing for a little more information.

“Aye, it is. My actual _role_ here is running the army’s training. “Ferifez,” he nods to the silent Cape, “is here on the same mission, assisting in training the Firqat, the local government Parahumans. As for why we’re _here_ , both of us have a great deal of counter-terror experience, and the Ministry didn’t want to leave anything to chance when it came to your security.”

“That likely?” I ask. “Terrorism?”

“Not really,” the General says, reassuringly. “Oman is as safe as houses, and there’s a lot of people with a vested interest in keeping it that way. It’s more about the _potential_ risk. Palanquin’s value, no offence, is tied up in two people. All an attacker would need to do is kill one of them and your organisation disappears overnight. It’s a precarious position, so we’re not leaving anything to chance.”

“Good to know you’re on top of things, I guess…” I say, trying hard not to think about anyone trying to assassinate Elle. Or Scrub, I suppose…

Eager to get my mind off those thoughts, I peer up from the floor at the imposing Cape, wracking my brains for what Emily told me about the Cape scene in the UK.

“So you must be with the King’s Men, right? Or is it the Suits?”

“Fuck off,” the Cape snaps at me, his stoic silence collapsing in an instant.

“What?” I snap back, lifting myself up off the floor a little.

The General chuckles a little, taking off his cap to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“There’s no chance I’d trust those mask-wearing _civilians_ anywhere near my operation. Ferifez is with the Met, kid.”

“Got something against masks?” I ask, genuinely interested. I haven’t yet met anyone who doesn’t buy into the whole Cape culture they have here.

“I’m old, kid,” he responds, turning in his seat to get a better look at me. “Back in the eighties, when all these parahumans started showing up and throwing the world into chaos, the idea of people in masks going out to bring about justice didn’t mean Batman or Superman, it meant some Provo bastard detonating a car bomb on the streets of Bangor. That’s the environment that shaped the Parahuman culture of our nation.”

Across from me, Ferifez tilts his helmet in a way that seems to suggest he’s rolling his eyes. Clearly this is a rant he’s heard before.

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again; there’s no place in the United Kingdom for masked justice. Law enforcement should be the business of professionals, not these foreign-backed idiots in their glorified theatre troupes.”

“Foreign backed?” I ask, stoking their fires a little.

“Everyone knows that both the Suits and the King’s Men are constantly a step away from bankruptcy. The only reason they haven’t gone the way of every other team of heroic idiots is that they’re propped up by funding from the PRT and various ‘charitable’ organisations.”

I chuckle a little, but this _does_ sound like the sort of thing Faultline wants us to look out for. We don’t know much about Cauldron, even now. All we _do_ know is that they sell powers, and that they were responsible for founding the Protectorate. If we’re ever going to be able to hit them directly, we need to know who we can count on, and who will side against us. Teams of heroic capes, playing into a uniquely _American_ stereotype of heroism, dependant entirely on financial support. It sounds like exactly the sort of pie that Cauldron’s dipped their fingers into.

“Of course,” Ferifez says, his crystalline helmet creeping back across his face to reveal coffee-coloured skin and a neatly trimmed beard, “now you understand why the army shipped him out here. Can’t play nice with anyone.”

“I’m old,” the General grumbles, “I’m allowed to be grumpy. I’m a dinosaur in a world of mammals. But I’m old enough to remember a time before Parahumans, back when the world made sense. Now it feels like I’m living on a fucking tinderbox, and the whole thing could go up at any second.”

“Yeah,” Ferifez snorts, “because I’m sure the Cold War felt so much safer.”

“At least back then somebody needed a gun if they wanted to shoot you,” the General replies, quietly, before pausing as voices come through his headset. “We’re coming up on the hotel now.”

Ferifez nods in acknowledgement, his crystalline helmet shifting and creeping down to cover his face once more. For my part I awkwardly shuffle around the small space until I’m facing the doorway. Behind me I can just about make out the chatter of the radio but, given that they’re all speaking Arabic, it’s not particularly useful to me.

With all the fuss they’re making, I’m almost disappointed when the door opens to reveal the front of a _very_ fancy hotel. We’re quickly but politely led into the lobby, cleared especially for our arrival, and up the lifts to the top floor. I have to take the lift on my own, because nobody else can fit. Not even the guy who’s job it is to press the lift button, something the bloke in question looked particularly happy about.

Our digs are about as nice as I was expecting, which is nicer than I’ve ever seen. After a brief period of fuss as we settle in, I find myself staring out of the window, looking over the normal hotel guests in the pool below, the armed soldiers discretely stationed on some of the lower parts of the roof and the sea stretching out ahead of me, as far as the eye can see.

“How the fuck did I get here?” I ask, as everything hits me at once.

“What do you mean?” Emily asks, looking up briefly from her laptop.

“Six months ago, I’d never left Britain. I was living out of a caravan with four other people, blowing all the money that didn’t get sunk into Khanivore, or the others’ student loan debts, on strong drink. Now I’m standing in the Royal suite of a five-star hotel in a country I’ve never heard of, with millions of dollars to my name and nothing to spend them on, and I can’t even stab somebody because we’re surrounded by enough armed bastards to invade the Isle of Wight.”

“Is stabbing people particularly important to your self-image?”

“I just…” I step back from the window, sinking into one of the sofas, probably damaging it irreparably. “I guess I feel a little pointless. I’ve been busy, more or less, since I got here. It wasn’t quite the same before then, but there was always another fight looming large in my mind. Now I’ve got nothing to do, and I kind of feel a little lost.”

“Just relax and enjoy yourself,” Emily leans back in her chair, half closing her laptop. “Things have been so heavy recently; I don’t think I’ve been this calm since before we left for Arizona.”

“Intellectually, I know you’re right, but I think I’m just used to the stress. I don’t know how to sit still. Never really have, if I’m being honest. If it wasn’t the fights, it was the clubs. I’m a professional drifter, through and through.”

“A real rebel without a cause.”

“Exactly!” I grin at her. “I mean, I wasn’t ever into politics. A couple of people I grew up with would probably call me a class traitor for being here, but I couldn’t ever really bring myself to give a shit. The whole system is fucked, sure, but trying to change it is pointless. So I decided to leave it all behind, to focus on what was right in front of me and ignoring everything else. I’ve never been one for big-picture thinking.”

“Speaking of _big-picture thinking_ ,” Faultline says as she steps into view, “have you heard anything about your medical issues?”

“Ah,” I’d blush if I could. “I haven’t checked my messages today.”

“I swear if I wasn’t around you’d be dead in a week,” Faultline shakes her head as she takes a seat on the couch opposite me. “This may come as some surprise to you, Sonnie, but I would be sad if you died. However, if you died because you couldn’t be bothered to seek help then I’d spend our billions on finding a way to bring you back to life, and kill you myself.”

“Understood, boss,” I lean over to Emily. “Hey, give us your laptop.”

“What? No!” she clutches the device protectively.

“Come on, Emily. My life is on the line here,” I say with false seriousness.

“My keyboard is on the line!”

“I can’t help it,” I say in dismay. “I’ve got _claws_! Have a heart, kid.”

I put on my most pitying expression until Emily finally relents, handing the device over with a heavy sigh. She’s already closed whatever she was looking at, so I open up the internet and fumble about with the keyboard as I log into a familiar site:

**Welcome to the Parahumans Online Message Boards**  
You are currently logged in, Sunny_Disposition (Verified Cape)  
You are viewing:  
• Threads you have replied to  
• AND Threads that have new replies  
• OR private message conversations with new replies  
• Thread OP is displayed  
• Ten posts per page  
• Last ten messages in private message history  
• Threads and private messages are ordered by user custom preference.  
You have 3 infractions and 5 warnings. You were last banned on May 6, 2011. Your probationary status expires on June 25, 2011. 

■

**♦ Private message from OrchardKeeper:**  
  
► 3 Undisplayed Private Messages  
**OrchardKeeper:** I don't know what you're talking about.  
**Sunny_Disposition:** Dont play coy with me, bitch. I saw you playing apologist on the thread about Blastos dissappearance. Youre rotten apple, bad apple, apple cider or whatever the fuck youre calling yourself nowadays. I mean seriously, OrchardKeeper?  
**Sunny_Disposition:** At least my name is fuckinh subtle. You may remember me as the butch bitch who gave your boy a kick in the brain, so to speak. If your having trouble placing me, just take a look out your window at any of the army you made with my fuckin DNA.  
**OrchardKeeper:** Congratulations, Khanivore, you figured it out. That means you've probably also figured out that we're way out of your league.  
**Sunny_Disposition:** Oh youve done well enough off a couple of skin cells, some blood and a few primitive MRI imahes, but you can always do better.  
**Sunny_Disposition:** I need someone to cut me open and get elbow deep in my insides. Someone who can splice my fucking nervous system back together without fucking it up and leaving me a paraplegic. I need a fucking expert, and your sugar daddy is the closest thing to an expert on this fucking planet.  
**Sunny_Disposition:** Tell him that he can root around in me for as long as he wants, take samples from anywhere he fucking likes, just so long as he fixes me up and gets me a new tank. Hell probably get a stiffy thatll poke your eye out, but if vigorous sex isnt a good enoygh motivator then ive also got forty million dollars.  
**OrchardKeeper:** And just where exactly did you find that sort of money? You win the lottery, or does grunt work really pay that well?  
**OrchardKeeper *New Message*:** You know what? Fine. I'll set up the meet. You'll find a flight waiting for you at Muscat international airport tomorrow at nine AM. Be there, or don't. I honestly don't care. Wish I'd never picked this stupid name...  
[/INDENT]

“We’re good as gold, boss,” I say, glancing up from the screen at Faultline. “I’m meeting a plane at nine AM tomorrow.”

“Good,” Faultline says, as impassively as ever, before leaning forwards. “Now, Sonnie, I don’t want you rushing this. You take as long as it takes to get yourself back on your feet; I can’t have you here at anything less than top physical condition.”

I nod at her, seriously this time. It’ll be nice to be able to stand on two feet again, to be able to walk without spasming. Above all, it’ll be nice to know that I won’t be dead weight in a fight. That’s what’s been eating at me the most; I hate the idea of being unable to keep the others safe, or of needing them to protect me.

I look back over the messages. Rotten Apple doesn’t like me, but her boss really is the best option available at the moment. He didn’t fuck me over in Boston, and I’ll just have to hope that he doesn’t fuck me over in India.

I stare at the last message Applesauce sent me, trying to figure out just why it seems to be bugging me so much.  
“Hang about, I never bloody told her I was in Oman!”


	94. Gateways: 14.02

There’s not a single fucking seat in the back of this plane. It looks antique, but every piece of tech I’ve seen that wasn’t made by a Tinker looks antique to me. Not that it matters much; it could be made from the most high-tech materials on the planet and it would still be bloody uncomfortable. There’s plenty of space, in fact I’m alone in the back of this thing, but it’s all empty. It’s a military transport plane, bulbous and grey, crewed by five people who’ve been ignoring me with practiced indifference. I guess they’re not used to monstrous cargo that talks back…

I don’t know if Bad Apple sent this plane because she knew it would be uncomfortable, or if it was genuinely the best she could sort at short notice. Given that I’m a right vindictive bitch, I’m going to assume the former and blame her for my aches and pains.

Either way, I’ve got no way of telling the time right now, so I just curl up as best as I can on the floor and try to fall asleep. It’s not easy, and I can’t help but wonder why we never thought of putting a trigger in here that would knock me unconscious, but eventually I drift off, spending most of the journey shifting between being awake and asleep without ever really being either.

The drop in pressure as we descend is enough to wake me up, something that the crewman standing over me seems very grateful for. He’s holding a long pole, and it looks like he was about to try and poke me awake. I simply snort at him as he backpedals, and laughter rises up from the other end of the hold. Another crewmember, probably the one who put her buddy up to this.

“I assume we’re coming in to land?” I ask, turning away from the still-backpedalling crewmember as his back hits the hull.

“In fifteen minutes, yes,” the woman replies, a little hesitantly.

“Do you…” she asks, pausing like she’s working herself up to something. “Do you talk now? Is that some new… thing?”

“Not really,” I say, peering out of a tiny circular window with my one good eye. We’re passing over an absolutely immense city, even by my standards. Parts of it look official enough, with a spiderweb of streets lined with trees, but other areas are filled with sprawling streets of unplanned housing, old buildings that look hundreds of years old, or the out-of-place skyscrapers of an economy that’s about to take the first steps on the road that eventually leads to corporate arcologies and urban domes.

“I guess you could say I’m subject zero,” I say idly, my eye fixed on the city below. I can’t see the woman through my empty eye socket, but I didn’t hear her walk away.

“What city is this?”

“Dehli.” The capital, then. Seems Blasto’s doing well for himself out here.

“What do you mean ‘subject zero?’” she musters up the courage to ask.

I turn from the window, sitting down so that I’m leaning against the hull.

“A few months back, I sold samples of my DNA to an agent of your government,” I say, and I’m technically not lying, though he wasn’t one at the time. “I’m cashing in a debt he owes me to get some repairs done,” I point a claw at my gaping eye socket, “and to see what he’s managed to do with what I sold him.”

Blasto might not _see_ it that way, but he owes me. Big time. He’s gone from being a small-time gang boss in Boston to being able to redirect military aircraft to pick me up. All of it thanks to what I gave him. Not that Rotten Apple would see it that way, of course. It’s why I didn’t try to appeal to her good graces.

At some point, I hear the sound of boots on metal as the crewman retreats behind me, no doubt off to do some vital preparations before we land. Or she’s just trying to leave an awkward conversation. Outside my little window, the city is getting closer and closer as the plane descends, the endless sprawl becoming easier and easier to distinguish as it gets closer. And then the sprawl disappears giving way to an immense runway bordered on three sides by thick green woods, with warehouses and other buildings occasionally poking through the treeline.

We touch down with a juddering jolt as the wheels make contact with the runway, and I lose sight of the distant compounds behind a row of absolutely immense hangars as the aircraft decelerates. Parked in front of the hangars are ten immense transports, marginally more modern-looking than the one I’m on, with people and trucks scattered about a couple of them, probably preparing them for some distant mission. The scale of it all is staggering.

The aircraft shudders a little as it decelerates, before eventually slowing to a crawl as it starts to taxi off the runway. It turns, and I catch a brief glimpse of one of the more modern planes moving onto the runway before I lose sight of it as it leaves my tiny window. It takes a surprisingly long time for the plane to shudder to a halt, but, when it finally does stop, the crewman moves up to the end of the hold and drops the rear ramp, revealing a flatbed truck with a single driver waiting next to it. Compared to the onrush of dignitaries and sycophants we’ve had to deal with over the last few days, it’s almost comfortable to go back to being the barely-tolerated mercenary.

The driver doesn’t even look at me as I clamber up into the back, just getting into the cabin like he routinely gives lifts to twelve-foot-tall monsters. Actually, Blasto’s here. It’s entirely possible that _is_ his routine.

The truck brings me across the runway, past the enormous expanse of concrete holding the other transports. There’s movement by the closest one; a column of quadrupedal creatures, almost as tall on all fours as the soldiers escorting them, clamber into the back of one of the aircraft. As far as I can tell, they’re following the verbal commands of one of the air force personnel, though they’re followed by a tracked vehicle covered in communications gear. Probably the network hub.

Servitors. The sight of them is almost enough to bring a tear to my eye. Semi-sapient creatures, slaved to a single control network. Some need constant direction for anything less than the simplest of tasks, others are much more sophisticated, leeching processing power off their controller to make snap judgements and almost act on their own initiative. These creatures are war beasts, which means they’re as intelligent as a well-trained dog and ten times as lethal.

Another column of creatures moves past us and onto the dispersal area, heading for the next aircraft in the line. They may look like rabid animals, but their movements are almost eerily synchronised. They don’t break formation, don’t lose pace or slip up. It’s not in their nature. This close, my influence on them is clear to see. They’re more heavily armoured than me, with a much less versatile tail, but the broad strokes are still much the same. Part of me can’t help but be a little impressed at what Blasto’s managed to make with my genes.

Maybe a little proud, too… Even though that’s a fucking stupid thought.

We pass another two columns as I’m driven off and into the forest that rings the runway, the driver following a winding road that twists and turns in seemingly random directions. Abruptly, he veers off, and suddenly we’re pulling up to the gates of a compound within the wider airbase, with three immense, windowless buildings and a single office block three stories tall.

A column of servitors are leaving one of the immense buildings through a set of warehouse doors. Watching them is a man in an olive-green uniform, with a peaked cap on his head and a pair of aviators shading his eyes. Blasto – because who else could it be? – is standing there like a conquering general, his lip curled up on one side in a self-satisfied grin.

He turns at the sound of the truck coming to a stop and starts to stride across the compound towards me, a woman following half a step behind him and to his right. She’s not wearing her costume, instead being dressed in the same green uniform as her boss, but unless Blasto has found another girl I’d bet my last remaining eye that she’s Poison Apple. Unless she’s changed her name again, of course.

I don’t wait for them to reach me, instead leaping gracefully off the van. At least, that was the plan. What actually happens is that I spasm halfway out of the truck, and am barely able to stop myself from faceplanting into the hard concrete. I look up as Blasto lets out a long, low, whistle, and Granny Smith tries to stifle a laugh. She doesn’t look like she’s trying very hard.

“Somebody _really_ did a number on you,” Blasto says, wincing a little as he spots my missing eye. I spot something myself; his voice is the same, but he’s changed his face.

“You had some work done?” I ask, waving my hand in front of my face to clarify what I mean.

“Nah, it’s real.” He says, stepping right up to me. “I used to wear a fungal mask I made that changed my looks a little. Gave the impression I wasn’t interested in secret identities while keeping my identity a secret.”

He puts his finger in my eye socket, pushing his sunglasses further down his nose with the other hand as he leans in for a closer look. Behind him, Apple Pie rolls her eyes at me in a rare moment of silent understanding. I pull back, turning my head to narrow my eye at Blasto.

“You know, Blasto, I’m not the type to fuck on the first date” – that may be the biggest lie I’ve ever told. Although I suppose what I used to do wasn’t really _dating_ …

“Right…” he replies, sounding like he didn’t really hear me even if he does pull back. “So what’s the damage? Looking at you I’m guessing internal nerve damage, and the eye, of course.”

“Got shot. Four times, right through my fucking eye. They were pistol bullets, not nearly enough to pierce my hide, so they just sort of ricocheted about inside me for a while. Fucked up my nervous system all down my left side, and I’m getting concerned that the internal wounds might have become infected. It’s not the sort of thing your tank can fix and, even if it was, the bitch shot that too.”

“Ouch.” Blasto deadpans. “Oh, before I forget, it’s Rey Andino.” He holds out a hand and I shake it, carefully suppressing a twinge that could have crushed him. “Not much use for a cape name in my current job, and I kind of wanted to step away from who I was as Blasto. Even kicked the ganja.”

“I’ve been there, I get it,” I say, looking him up and down. He’s still as blinded by biotech as ever, but he does seem to have cleaned up his act a little. His shirt even looks like it’s been _ironed_. Although, judging by the cigarette smell sticking to him, he might have just traded one addiction for another.

“I have to say,” as yet another column moves out of the building. The warehouse doors close, though, so I think this might finally be the last one, “you sure have been busy.”

“What, those things?” He waves a hand at the column dismissively, his eyes still crawling over my body. “They’re neat, sure, but they’re mostly canon fodder. We churn out a hundred or so every week. Got a few other facilities doing the same across the country, but here is where the _real_ magic happens. In fact…”

He pauses, his head darting around briefly.

“You’re not going to die in the next half hour, are you?”

“Not as far as I’m aware.”

“Great!” Blasto – _Rey_ – flings his arms out and grins from ears to ear. “How about a tour?”

It doesn’t take me long to decide.

“Fuck it, I’m game. I have to admit, I’m a little curious about what you’ve managed to make.”

“Then let’s go.” He spins on his heels and starts to stride away, taking long steps that almost leave me in the dirt. Fortunately, he’s still only human, so I’m able to keep pace with a few loping strides of my own. Applesauce isn’t so lucky, but from the way she’s walking it seems like she’s used to having to hurry to keep up.

Part of me feels like I owe her. She might be a bitch – okay she _is_ a bitch – but she still got me out of some shit. I never payed my debts to the Predators, even though they saved my life. Maybe this is a chance to start? Not because I’m a fucking bleeding-heart altruist hippie type, but because one good turn creates a debt that can only be repaid by another.

“Listen, Apple…”

“It’s Eve now,” she says, not paying me much mind.

“Getting biblical with the references, eh? I… Look, I’m not good at this so I’ll just come out and say it. You’ve really pulled my arse out of the fire here.”

“So you’re saying you owe us?”

“ _Fuck_ no.” I turn my head, taking in the fortified compound built with the overwhelming sort of overspend that only a government can manage.

“Everything you have, you got from my DNA. The balance of favoured owed is still firmly in my favour.”

“You know what the annoying thing is? The thing that _really_ pisses me off?” She looks down at me, something close to a smile on her lip. “You’re right.”

She looks up at Rey, still forging ahead and completely ignorant of our little chat.

“I don’t like you. You’re vulgar, and more than a bit of a bitch, but that’s not it. Four months ago, Rey was in a funk. He’d burned himself in Boston, and it was like he was just going through the motions. He used to talk about taking over, but then he pulled back entirely and left me to run his territory on my own.”

She scowls, looking at me with an angry expression on her face.

“I fucking _tried_ to break h through the shell he’d built up around himself, but nothing was working. And then _you_ show up. You’re rude, vulgar, fucking _mute_ , but you get through to him where _I_ couldn’t. The day after you left he puts on a suit and drags me off to Washington, and a week later we were standing right here, watching the foundations for this place being laid. He’s dynamic, enthusiastic, everything he wasn’t before. You did what I couldn’t and I think I hate you for it, but I also owe you.”

I’m a little surprised that she’s being so genuine. It’s more than I expected from her. Idly, I find myself chuckling as Eve shoots me another dirty look.

“Apples.” She gives me an incredulous look bordering on anger. “I’m the fucking _apple_ , or maybe the serpent. Or both, rolled into one.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She’s definitely scowling at me now.

“Think about it. Blasto was content in Boston. He had his little garden, and he thought that was all there was. Then you bring me to him, and suddenly he’s realised that his little garden isn’t enough. That there’s so much more he could be doing. I gave him the knowledge of good and evil, or however the fuck it went.”

“I never thought you’d be the sort of person who’d go for biblical references.”

“Nah, fuck the Pope. I’ve just had that shite forcefed to me. Enough that some of it stuck.”

At the entrance to the second concrete warehouse, a guard with a rifle straightens up and holds the door open for us. Blasto doesn’t acknowledge him, but Eve nods gratefully. Inside, it’s like a mad scientist’s wet-dream. Wall to wall glass tubes, the liquid inside tinted the familiar red of Blasto’s enzyme mix. Inside each tube is a human body part; arms, legs, eyes, even a few internal organs. Lots of livers, for some reason.

Blasto spins on his heels, his hands spread out like a circus ringmaster. His smile is infectious, and I find myself taking a good long look over the vats just to show that I appreciate his hard work.

“Nice. There’s a lot of money in organ trading. How’d you handle the rejection issue?”

Back home, specialised cells were used to suppress the body’s natural reaction to foreign organs. I’m more than a little interested to see if Blasto’s gotten that complex yet.

“Don’t need to. Each one is made to order using samples of the subject’s DNA.”

“Shouldn’t that take ages to grow?”

“Normally it would, yeah,” he’s in full flow now, talking like only a passionate scientist can, “but I use specialised enzymes to stimulate the growth of the limbs, and another one to slow it back down before I take them out and send them off to the hospital on the other side of the base.”

Or he just used Parahuman bullshit to sidestep the issue altogether. I guess I should have expected that.

“Impressive,” I say, and the look on his face tells me I might have just walked into something.

“You haven’t seen nothing yet.”

He swipes a keycard to open a door at the end of the room, practically sauntering down a long corridor before pushing open both sides of a large set of double doors. The next room is somehow even more cavernous than what I’ve tentatively decided to call the organ chamber, with only a few tanks at the far end of the room. Most of the rest of the space is taken up by metal cradles supporting truly immense four-armed creatures that only remotely resemble me.

The influence is still there, but it’s like he took my DNA and played around with it, rather than the reduced copies I saw outside. He’s also spliced in what looks like cybernetics, to the point where I honestly can’t tell if they’re more creature or machine. I drag my attention back to Blasto, only to see him waiting patiently with a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“They’re pretty great, aren’t they? You saw the Raptors outside, well they’re quantity. Swarm the enemy with superior numbers, moving erratically and getting in closer than most people are used to fighting nowadays. If they die, who gives a shit? There’s always more.”

There’s definitely something to be said for that, even if the thought of hundreds of creatures that look more or less like me being used for cannon fodder is a little disquieting.

The fuck am I thinking? They’re just fucking _servitors_. I sure hope this damn dimension hasn’t made me _soft_. I like myself the way I am; tough as nails, with plenty of sharp edges.

“Of course,” Blasto continues, fortunately ignorant of my brief identity crisis, “quantity can only get you so far. Sometimes you need a scalpel, not a sledgehammer, so I came up with the Cyclops concept. The idea was to merge your world’s biotechnology with some of the advanced cyborg tech that’s floating around Indonesia these days. Took a while to iron the kinks out, but I’ve got a whole research staff here.”

I reach up to the closest Cyclops to me, idly stroking the seam between the metal and flesh. Tech wasn’t allowed in Beastie Baiting, the whole _point_ was that it was living creatures wailing on each other, but I’ve seen cyborg fusions done a couple of times in other environments. It’s nowhere near as efficient as proper Bitek, or it wasn’t back home, but it looks like Blasto might have managed to work around those limitations.

“ _And_ , to top it all off, I copied that neat organ you had in your head and linked them all up to my brain.”

My jaw drops. Blasto’s just standing there, grinning like the goddamn lunatic he is.

“You did _what_?”


	95. Gateways: 14.03

Blasto’s just standing there, with a shit-eating grin on his face, as the world falls away beneath my feet.

“Impressed?”

I pause for a moment, gnashing my teeth together before I force myself to stop.

“ _Surprised_. That’s some cutting-edge shit you just no-sold. My Affinity Neuron Symbiont.”

“Catchy name,” Blasto smiles. “It took me a while to figure out what exactly that funny-looking organ on the MRI scan was. At first, I just thought it might be a tumour, but with how _perfect_ ” – I’m not sure I like the look in his eyes – “the rest of your body is, I figured it had to be deliberate. It took several million dollars of research costs, but eventually I was able to duplicate it. Of course, that left me with a piece of biotech that was keyed to _your_ brain specifically, but I had a bit of a flash of inspiration that helped me convert it to my DNA.”

What the fuck? How do you copy a fucking Symbiont from a few grainy MRI pictures? How do you tweak it to your DNA?

“It’s a fascinating little thing, isn’t it? I assume it’s how we’re having this conversation, without you scrawling on a whiteboard like last time. I’ve done a similar thing with a parrot that saves me the bother of learning any of the local languages.”

At that point it all becomes too much, and I snarl.

“ _Fuck_ powers. You have any idea how bullshit that is? How the fuck do you go from a few grainy pictures of an MRI and samples from _nowhere near_ my brain and somehow cobble together a fully-functioning Affinity network?

“I guess I’m just that good!” Blasto exclaims, in a tone that makes me want to run up and punch him in the face.

“Anyway,” he strides over to a set of doors at the far end of the room, swiping his card through the reader and pushing them open to reveal the harsh summer sun, “we probably should get to it.”

He starts ambling across the yard, leaving me to follow him, fuming angrily to myself all the while.

“So we have three buildings here,” he says, turning around just long enough to meet my gaze, “the first production facility, where the Raptors are made, the second production facility, where we handle medical production and where the Cyclops are stored when they’re not in use. They’re neat, but the real magic happens in the third building. _Advanced R &D_.”

“Hang about,” I pause, glancing around the compound to check, “there’s four buildings.” I point a tendril to the office-block looking building. “What happens in there.”

Blasto stops in his tracks, pushing up his sunglasses and his hat as he peers at the mysterious fourth building.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

Eve sighs, a harsh and disgruntled nose that speaks of months of frustration.

“That’s the _admin block_. It’s where all the administration needed to keep this place running happens, as well as the headquarters of our little branch of the Defence Research and Development Organisation.”

“ _Really_?” Blasto sounds fascinated. “Do I have an office?”

“You do.”

“Is it nice?”

“It’s quite tasteful.”

“Huh.”

Blasto seems stumped for a few moments, looking off towards the distant office block, with its ‘tasteful’ furnishings. Eventually he shakes his head, turns on his heels, and strides off towards the research building, like none of that conversation ever happened.

This time there are two guards waiting at the doors, and a proper reception office manned by an overweight man in much the same uniform everyone else is wearing. All three buildings had a bare concrete exterior, but the inside of this one is actually pretty swish. It’s well-lit, with polished floors in the corridor and even a few pictures along the walls showing Raptors in various stages of construction. It seems like they’re grown in parts, then spliced together, then dumped back into a vat to let the skin grow on top of the corded muscle. Not quite the process we used to make Khanivore, but it’s similar enough to be almost nostalgic.

The real magic happens at the end of the corridor, past yet another security checkpoint. A set of heavy steel doors opens up into a chamber that could be called cavernous if it wasn’t so well-lit. I always feel that places like this should be gloomy, with bare concrete and mysterious vats of bubbling liquid. The vats are there, bubbling away in the corner, but the rest of the place is disappointingly practical, with plenty of railings and health and safety signs, and the floor and walls coated with practical wipe-clean tiles.

In comparison to the room itself, the giant cradle and sets of sharp hooks that Blasto is leading me towards look _exactly_ like they belong in a mad scientist’s lair. It doesn’t help that there’s a half-dissected and clearly still alive Raptor on another cradle right next to it, being poked and prodded by a couple of people in glossy white outfits that _also_ look wipe-clean.

Blasto turns once he reaches the cradle, leaning back on one of the metal arms as he turns to look at me, taking off his sunglasses and tucking them into the pocket of his shirt.

“So our first priority is to figure out where the bullets are. Now, we have a supersized MRI scanner, and you have no idea how long I’ve dreamt of being able to say _that_ , but obviously we can’t use it on you. We’ll just bombard you with X-rays instead.”

“Alright,” I say, hesitantly.

“Great!” Blasto eagerly rubs his hands together, a truly manic look in his eyes. “Just hop up into the cradle and we’ll get started.”

I look up at the frankly industrial-looking collection of pulleys and metal arms and shake my head. There’s something about this sort of business that brings out the Frankenstein in even the most self-respecting scientist, and I don’t think Blasto was ever one of those.

Still, part of me hesitates as I step under the cradle, taking deliberate note that the floor is slightly tilted towards a drain in the floor. Blood isn’t really too much of a problem for someone with my degree of control over their circulatory system, but the same can’t be said about Blasto’s other creations.

I strangle my hesitation in its crib, and lift up my left hand whole a couple of Blasto’s staff silently attach my forearm to a pulley. The movement has nerves and muscles twinging all down my left side, but I grit my teeth and try to force the muscles to calm, with varying degrees of success. The right arm is easier, and soon only my hind legs are still touching the ground.

I shouldn’t be nervous about this. There’s nothing here that I haven’t done dozens of times before with Ivrina, whenever she needed to cut me open to stitch me back after a fight, or with Jacob and Karran whenever they swapped out components with newer upgrades in an attempt to make my reaction time just that little bit faster. This body is a fucking tool, and like a tool it needs regular maintenance, needs to be taken apart so that it can be oiled, or so that new parts can replace damaged components.

I shouldn’t be so nervous about this, but I can’t suppress that little twinge of doubt. I knew the Predators long before they operated on me, but I don’t think I really know Blasto. Still, my life is in his hands. I _need_ to fix this if I’m ever going to be anything more than deadweight for Palanquin to lug around the place.

Some of Blasto’s people have set up a screen behind me, probably something to do with the X-ray scanner they’re going to use. Sure enough, another pair of orderlies wheel over a primitive, camera-like device and start running it up and down my left side with almost methodical slowness. Blasto is engrossed by a screen on a small trolley, probably showing my insides in black-and-white. He uses a stylus to mark out a few sections, before looking up at me.

“Okay, so we’ve accounted for all four of the bullets. None of them have fragmented, which is good, but they’re also spread out and buried pretty deep in places. It looks like they sort of followed the path of your nervous system, couldn’t hit the skin and shook about a bunch. Speaking about penetration, the deepest one made it to your pelvis while the shallowest is lodged uncomfortably close to your brain. I’d say you dodged a bullet with that one, but that wouldn’t exactly be accurate… The other two are pretty close to your heart, with one lodged in your sternum.”

I laugh at his gallows humour, but part of me is worried. Still, as messages go it’s hard to beat a bullet lodged next to your brain. All the more reason why we need to be fucking _careful_ about going after Cauldron.

“I knew it would be bad, but that’s a little worse than I was hoping for. What’s the play, doc?”

Did he? No, he can’t have. There’s no fucking way he just _licked his lips_.

“I’m going to need to open you up pretty extensively.” He says, trying and failing to look sad about it. “Quite aside from the bullets, the damage to your nervous system is extensive. Frankly, I’m surprised you were able to walk as well as you could. There’s also the risk of infected tissue, but that’s the sort of thing we won’t know until I have you under the knife.”

It’s what I was expecting, but still…

“Fuck it. Do what you have to do.”

Blasto claps his hands together, rubbing them eagerly as he looks around for a saw or something.

“Music to my ears!”

“Rey,” Eve cautions him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe don’t get blood on your uniform?”

“Right, right,” Blasto mutters to himself as he almost jogs off to a side door. He turns back at the threshold, cupping his hands to shout across the room at my half-suspended body.

“Don’t go anywhere!”

I can hear him laughing at his own joke as he presumably runs off to get changed. Eve steps into my field of view, looking up at me curiously.

“Hey,” I ask her, “I don’t suppose there’s a screen or something you can get me? So I can see what he’s doing?”

“Sure,” she waves to one of the staff, and soon there’s a fairly rudimentary screen on a trolley in front of my right eye, linked up to a camera on a tripod that’s pointed at my left side. The light isn’t great, but I think I still look good.

“You seem remarkably… calm about this,” she says, after a moment spent lost in thought.

“I’ve been through this before,” I explain, not seeing a need to keep my card close to my chest. “I used to be a pit fighter, and that meant a lot of time being taken apart and spliced back together. To be honest, it’s sort of a novelty to be repaired in such a fancy space. Normally it was in the back of a lorry or, if the job was urgent, in the backrooms of whatever grungy pit I was fighting in at the time. At least the lorry was sterile; the others were fanatics when it came to that sort of thing.”

“Still, it’s one thing not to be modest, but Rey’s going to cut you open. He’s going to be rummaging around your central nervous system, right next to your _brain_. Do you want anaesthetic?”

“No real need. I don’t feel pain the same way you do. I’m aware of it, of course, but it’s never crippling. Pain’s a good indicator of danger, but crippling pain just gets in the way during a fight.”

“So you’re just going to hang there and let him cut you open? No anaesthetic, no anything?”

“You say that like it’s _weird_.” I reply sarcastically.

She shakes her head and stands back to lean against a pillar, watching me intently as we wait for Blasto to come back.

“I love this part, you know.” She says after a while, quiet enough that I wonder if she’s talking to herself until she tilts her head up to meet my gaze. “Watching him work. I’m not interested in what he’s actually doing, but it’s like he comes alive when he’s putting something under the knife.”

“Must suck knowing that you’re playing second wheel to his work,” I say, and I genuinely mean it. I’ve seen enough girls hanging off men’s arms for safety or prestige or because they’ve been forced to be there. Enough to know that Eve isn’t one of them. Blasto isn’t that type of man, for that matter.

“You’re looking at it the wrong way. He _is_ his work. All of this,” she turns her head, taking in the immense chamber and everything within it, “is part of who he is. I love him, and because I love him I want to see him succeed, want to see the look in his eyes whenever he’s working on something new. It’s much better than the apathetic shell of a man he can be when he’s constrained.”

“Like in Boston,” I muse.

“Exactly,” she looks like she’s about to say more, but that’s the point when Blasto comes back through the door. He’s dressed from head to toe in a cleanroom suit, with a transparent visor over his face. As he walks towards me, he veers off to grab a trolley and drag it behind him, a trolley laden with all sorts of cutting implements.

He doesn’t talk as he runs his fingers over his tools, only looking up once he’s selected a scalpel with a blade that doesn’t quite seem natural. Tinkertech, probably. He steps up to me, more carefully than I was expecting, and brings the blade down.

“The pelvis first,” he mutters to himself, glancing back at the X-ray images to make sure he has the right place. I feel the blade, sharper than it has any right to be, part my skin in a straight line. I cut the flow of blood to the affected area as best I can, as Blasto uses a pair of forceps to part my stringy musculature. He sets them aside after a while, using metal wedges to hold the incision open as he roots around with a pair of tweezers, eventually letting out a satisfied grunt as he pulls out a dull metallic object, warped, misshapen, and coated in my own blood.

“It’s as I feared,” he says as he places the bullet in a metal tray. “The flesh around the bullets has been infected.”

“Shit,” I mutter to myself. It’s the worst-case scenario.

My fears are only compounded as Blasto makes the incision into my chest, pulling out two bullets and revealing even more infected flesh. My immune system is good, but it was never meant for prolonged use, and it certainly wasn’t meant to function without the support of the tank. To make it worse, the infection has spread to parts of my nervous system, exacerbating the damage already caused by the bullets.

When it comes to the last bullet, Blasto has to be a little more thorough. It’s lodged next to my brain, which means it’s hidden inside the most heavily armoured part of my body; the ridge of armoured plates between my head and my tail. The plates are spliced on, and anchored to my skeleton, so Blasto has to first peel away at the plates themselves, then use a strong mechanical pincer on the gurney to hold the plate up so that he can see beneath. The sensation is about as close to true pain as I can get, but I grit my teeth and endure.

“There you are,” Blasto says, satisfied, as I see my own brain on the screen in front of me. He lifts the bullet out, but then he pauses, leaning in to get a closer look. After a moment I realise it’s not my brain he’s interested in, but my Affinity Neuron Symbiont.

“It really is a fascinating organ. It’s opened my eyes in more ways than one. Tell me, have you heard about the corona pollentia? The corona gemma?”

“They’re tumours Parahumans have, aren’t they?” I ask, digging up the little bit of trivia Emily told me as I was pouring over Cauldron’s paperwork.

“Yeah. Some percentage of the population has a tumour somewhere in their head; that’s the pollentia. It’s benign, dormant, easily overlooked, and completely functionless. But when you put someone with a pollentia through a traumatic event, it grows and mutates into a gemma. The Parahuman organ, some people like to call it. Nobody knows how, but it somehow lets people shoot fire from their fingertips, lets a woman generate balls of gas from thin air,” he nods towards Eve, who’s leaning forwards with rapt interest.

“Even lets a man duplicate technology fifty years in advance of anything his world has ever seen, from a few MRI images and some DNA samples.”

He falls silent for a few moments, lost in thought.

“It’s not physically possible for human beings to do those things, and yet here we are. It’s not possible for the corona gemma to do such things either. It’s never the same in any parahuman, but that’s still not enough to explain it. But here we have something that works off paired neurons, that can send signals instantaneously to just about anything you can think of.”

“You think this ‘corona gemma’ is the same thing?” I ask.

“Like I said, no two gemmas look alike, but there are superficial similarities in all of them. The stuff that’s similar almost looks like what you’ve got in your head, only I don’t think it’s keyed to the DNA of the host. I mean, it makes sense, right? The energy costs and processing power of Parahuman abilities is handled somewhere else. The effect is then transmitted through this symbiotic link to manifest itself in the host.”

“So what are the Case-53s? A link gone bad?”

“Maybe,” Blasto frowns, “I’ve never had one under the knife, and this is just a theory at the moment anyway. Still, it would explain a lot. Of course, it raises more questions than it answers.”

“Like what’s on the other side of the link.”

“Exactly. Answer that, and the world is at your fingertips.”

Blasto leans in again, and I swear I can feel his breath on my brain, even though I know that’s impossible. I shiver, and a sudden feeling of fear and vulnerability crawls down my spine. It’s like he’s peeled away my armour and left me naked and vulnerable.

After an instant, I realise that’s exactly what he’s done. So much of myself is tied up in Khanivore; it’s been my armour against the world for a very long time.

“Listen, as fascinating as this is, you’ve got the bullets out. What’s the next step?”

Blasto leans back abruptly, even though I tried to keep my nerves out of my voice.

“Right, sorry. Got a little distracted there.”

He steps around my body to look me in the eye.

“Next step is repairing the damage, and I’m afraid it’s going to be a long process. We can grow you a new eye and replace the damaged tissue, including the nerves, but it’ll be a rather invasive procedure. Essentially what we’ll need to do is dissect you and switch out nerves and muscle, then make sure it works by running a current through it.”

He pauses for a brief moment to let that sink in.

“It’s an incredibly delicate procedure. Even the slightest movement could throw it off. It’s long, too. Fiddly.”

“How long are we talking about?” I ask, more than a little nervous.

“One to two weeks. Maybe a little longer than that. Two weeks, in which you can’t move a single muscle.”

“It can’t be done. No one could stay still for that long.”

Blasto nods, and for the first time I see something like reservation on his face.

“Yeah. I’d need to anaesthetise you. Well, it’d have to be more thorough than that. An artificial coma.”

“ _Fuck_.”

I’ve gone under before, of course, but never for that long. The thought of putting myself in Blasto’s hands, in _anyone’s_ hands, for that long is frankly terrifying. But what choice do I have? I can’t keep on living like this. Even if it wasn’t going to kill me, then I still don’t think I’d be able to stand life as a crippled beast forced to walk on all fours. I miss being able to contribute to the crew. I miss not being able to drape an arm over Elle in case one of my spasms hurts her. I miss…

I miss being human.

“Alright. Do it. Put me under. But I have a couple of requests.”


	96. Gateways - 14.04

It’s slow, at first. The briefest flicker of sensation stretching across an eternity. I’ve lost my grip on time, drifting aimlessly in a warm haze. Another flicker, another sensation, clearer and more defined. I start to twitch and shake, each impulse bringing with it a little more awareness. Clusters of spasms become fingers and arms, thighs and talons. It’s a sensation I have only ever experienced once before this; when Ivrina first patched me into my new body.

My brain feeling out my nervous system, converting and processing that information into something I can understand, something I can use. A cluster of muscles make themselves known on my back, muscles that have no analogue in the human body. My tendrils do not feel like arms or legs. They do not move like human limbs, and they are not controlled like human limbs. And yet they are as familiar to me as my arms or my legs; I’ve been through this process before.

Before, it was like fumbling in a dark room, trying to find my way. Now it’s like slipping back into an old coat, comfortable and warm. I regain control of my jaw, opening and closing it almost by reflex. From the slight pressure, I know I’m immersed in liquid. I can move my eyes, but I can’t yet see through them. My _eyes_ …

Looks like the operation was a success.

And then, slowly, feeling creeps down my skin, various degrees of touch spreading out so that I can actually _feel_ the liquid I’m floating in. The degree of touch varies depending on how thick the skin is that that particular point, it was never a priority when we were building Khanivore, but it’s still enough to be comfortable. Of course, I can’t feel anything through the exoskeletal plates.

Last to come is sight, and it comes abruptly. The difference between an absence of sight and seeing darkness might seem small, but it makes all the difference in the world to me. I open my eyes, then hastily close them as I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the bright lights of Blasto’s lab, by the sheer shock at having a complete field of view again. I open my eyes once more, slowly this time, giving them enough time to adjust to the light.

Once they’re open, it’s like a whole new sensation has opened up. I’d gotten used to my limited sight, to not seeing anything past my crest. To have both eyes working again is one of the most amazing feelings I’ve ever felt. I know the feeling will fade, as my body readjusts to the old normal, so I savour the moment, turning my head to get a good view of the chamber.

I’m in a tank, with a handy screen displaying my vital signs. My heartbeat, the rate at which the enzymes in the fluid around me are being absorbed, the strength of the current being used to electrify them and the amount of time before it’s apparently okay for me to leave the tank. An amount measured in days.

The screen is controlled by buttons, not touchscreens, which means I can actually use it with my claws. Seems like Blasto’s put a lot more thought into this than I was expecting, or he has people to put in thought for him. I flick through the various screens, trying to figure out why exactly the tank says I can’t leave yet. Eventually I find it; a thorough assessment of my nervous systems and arteries, with a warning note that says the connections are “still growing in.” Looks like Blasto stitched me back together and dumped me in this very nice tank.

I wonder how long it’s been? Given that this tank wasn’t in the room when I went under, and it looks like it was purpose-built for me, it could have been a while.

Looks like I’ll get my answer soon; one of the other research staff has just dragged Blasto away from whatever the fuck he was working on, Eve following him as always. He stops in front of the glass, talking to me. I can’t hear him. At all.

I fumble with the buttons, eventually stumbling across one with a speaker symbol on it, bisected by a line. I push it, the line disappears, and sound starts to filter through.

“-you need to push the button with the speaker on it.”

“I figured it out, thanks.” I speak through the familiar connection of my voicebox. It’s not on my neck, so it must be attached to the outside of the tank.

“So!” Blasto leans in closer. “What do you think of your new digs?”

“I like it,” I say, glancing around the tank. “It looks very… _cutting edge_. Or at least as cutting edge as it gets here.”

“Wait until you see the wheels,” Blasto says as he leans in even closer, like he’s imparting a secret. “They’re _motorised_.”

“That’ll save me some legwork, thanks. So, doc, how’d it go?”

“Right.” Blasto fiddles with the screen on his side of the tank. I look closer at the buttons, spotting an option that lets me mirror what’s on his screen. Unfortunately, what’s one his screen is a whole bunch of medical jargon that I don’t really understand. I do recognise my own cross-section when he brings it up, but that’s about it.

“So first thing’s first,” Blasto says, looking up from the screen, “It’s the eleventh of July. You were under for eighteen days, which is longer than I was expecting. There were a few unfortunate complications, and it took me longer than it really should have to set everything right.”

I just nod, a slow movement so that I don’t push against the fluid and bang into the back of the tank.

“Still, right now you’re probably as healthy as you’ve been since you found your way here.” I strongly suspect ‘here’ is Earth Bet, otherwise he’s a really shit sawbones. “we’ve replaced the damaged nerve and muscle tissue, and grown a new eye for you. Now the splicework needs a few days to set properly, which is what the tank is for. The good news is that it’s a process we’re very familiar with, so we can time it down to the day. You’ll be safe to leave the tank on the fifteenth. The bad news is that you can’t just wheel yourself away; we need to keep you under observation to watch out for any possible tissue rejection.”

“Worse than I was expecting, but not as bad as I feared.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Blasto agrees. “Now, as for your other request.”

He waves at a couple of orderlies, who disappear into a side room. They return a few minutes later wheeling a hospital gurney. A figure’s resting on it, covered by a sheet. Blasto steps over to it and peels back the top of the sheet, revealing a young-looking face with long black hair. It’s me, or rather it’s what I’d look like without my scars, without my semi-fractured bones cradled by strands of polyp or my frayed nerves connected to overclocked bioware processors. A body that has never known hardship.

“One human clone, complete with an Affinity Neuron Symbiont and bioware processors in place of a brain. Fresh out of the vat just an hour ago. Give her a try.”

I close my eyes.

I can feel Khanivore, the familiar webwork of scaffolding that’s become more real to me than anything else in the world. Idly, acting through long habit, I run through a systems check: arteries, veins, muscles, tendons, fail-soft nerve-fibre network, multipleredundant heart-pump chambers. Khanivore is a fucking monument of complexity, balanced by redundancies and failsafes. She’s potential energy, curled up and waiting to be released.

Compared to that, the other webwork I can feel is almost sparse. It’s human, with all the imperfections that imples, but with that humanity comes sensation and feeling that Khanivore is incapable of. I can feel the cloth against my skin, shifting slightly in response to an unseen draught. I can smell antiseptic on my nose.

I open my eyes, and I’m looking up at the ceiling.

Sight is… different in this body. Not better or worse, just different. I take a while as I lie there to look around the room, turning my head as I refamiliarize myself with having a neck that can move this much, trying not to notice the phantom-limb sensation of tendrils sprouting out of my back. I go up and down the body flexing every muscle I have, noting the sensations of touch it sends right to my brain. Sensations I haven’t felt since the Predators pulled me out of that estate and saved my life.

Without a conscious effort on my part, a smile passes across my face. A motion I have been able to imitate in Khanivore by dropping my jaw, but this is the first time I’ve actually, properly, smiled in… fuck, I don’t know how long. I lie still, taking in deep breaths, and just let the sensations sink in. My old body was a mess of old scars and old wounds, but this body is fresh out of the vat. A fresh start.

The only thing that’s left to do is stand, so I reach out with a hand and throw off the sheet, slowly bringing myself up so that I’m sitting on the gurney, my legs dangling over the edge. The first thing that hits me when I see Blasto is how _tall_ he looks. Then I feel a little silly. I was never exactly tall, but I’ve spent the better part of five months looking out at the world from a twelve-foot-tall mass of muscle. It’s only natural that everything else would seem so small, especially since I’ve never seen Blasto from this height before.

Being around the Crew is going to be _weird_.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts, before taking the plunge and slipping off the gurney. I can feel the tiled floor on my feet, more sensitive than I’m used to, without the callouses of a drifter’s life. I take a step, hesitantly at first then more confident, as I move closer and closer to the tank, closer to the immense creature slumbering within.

How long has it been since I’ve seen this? How long has it been since I looked up at myself, took in my teeth and claws, the jagged lines of my body? I reach out, resting a hand on the glass, and feeling the warmth of the tank’s fluid, warmed by the tank itself and by the force of my own body heat, bleed through into my palm.

I grin, from ear to ear, and turn on my heels, expecting to see Blasto beaming back at me. Instead he’s looking sheepishly up at the ceiling, the walls, anywhere except me for some reason. I was almost going to run up and hug him, but the look on his face makes me pause.

_Right_. Fresh out of the vat…

“Oh don’t be such a fucking prude!”

I hug him anyway.

<|°_°|>

The sun feels warm on my skin. Around me, people are buzzing around Blasto’s compound, doing who knows what. Some of them look at me, and I can see unspoken questions on their lips. In the end, though, they leave me alone. I watch them, leaning on the railing that runs around the research building’s loading bay, watching as an immense four-engine aircraft takes off from the distant runway. 

The phone in my hand rings, three times, four times, five, and then she answers. Like so much about her, it’s a deliberate act formed from long practice and habit. Enough time to leave the caller in suspense, but not so long as to be rude to a potential client.

“Hello?”

“Boss, it’s me.” I push off the railing, pacing around the small raised patch of concrete. I’m fiddling at the cuff of my borrowed shirt with my other hand; I really need to find some clothes that fit.

“Sonnie,” Faultline’s voice is clear enough, but I can’t judge her mood. “You sound… different.”

“An opportunity came up. I’m speaking to you through a cloned human body, controlled through the same biotech I use to connect to Cranial’s voice box.”

Faultline falls silent.

“Boss?”

“Sorry, just… surprised. That’s great news, Sonnie.”

“Yeah. It was a split-second decision, but I’m glad I did it. If nothing else, it means I can actually pop out to the shops if we run out of milk. Anyway, how are things on your end?”

“We’re in Omsk, in Russia. Negotiations should be finishing soon, and the Red Gauntlet have been gracious hosts.”

“Glad to hear it,” I say, even as I wince. ‘Gracious hosts’ is a code we agreed on for groups that are connected to Cauldron. Until now, we’d been working off the theory that Cauldron were propping up factions that lined up with the Protectorate; colourful groups that bought into the whole superhero culture: the Libertadores in Mexico, Vanguard in South Africa, the Suits across Western Europe and the King’s Men in the UK. They fit the cultural profile, but they’re also tied to the PRT through financial loans and treaties.

We’ve been looking for support amongst factions that don’t fit the mould. Groups that don’t play by the normal Cape rules. There are quite a few out there, but we’ve not contacted any of them yet. We were playing it cautious, only keeping up with the Irregulars, and it looks like that caution has paid off.

On paper, Red Gauntlet should be the perfect allies. They’re not capes, they’re soldiers and mercenaries – on a totally different scale to us, of course – and we’ve worked for them in the past. What’s more, they’ve positioned themselves as the Protectorate’s rivals on the international stage. They grew out of the old Soviet Union’s parahuman military division, transitioning into a private military company and taking much of Russia’s military-industrial complex with them.

Their size should have been the first warning sign, come to think of it. After the Protectorate, they’re the second-largest Parahuman organisation in the world, largely thanks to mass recruitment programs in the warzones they operate in. We should have realised that an organisation that large had to be connected to Cauldron in one way or another.

“So what’s next?”

“Once we’ve finished the negotiations and opened the portal here, we’ll be touching base with the Irregulars and moving on to the next stage. Are you done with your treatment?”

“Not quite. I’ll be done on the fifteenth.”

“Very well. I’ll be in touch just before you get out. In the meantime, do try to relax.”

I laugh, looking around the base.

“It’s a military base, boss. I’ll be twiddling my thumbs the whole time.”

“Sonnie,” Faultline’s voice has taken on a distinctly serious tone. “You’re a few miles out from a city of over twenty million people, and you have a human body. Take a few days off; it won’t kill you.”

I must have sounded a little hesitant, because she keeps talking.

“Do you know why capes wear masks?”

“I dunno, boss,” I respond, a little flippantly. “Some kind of sex thing?”

“We wear masks,” the boss continues, ignoring me, “because the world we operate in isn’t the same as the one most people live in. It’s stressful, intense, and it _never stops_. But then you take off the mask and you can slip back into anonymity, destress and recentre yourself. That’s a luxury you, Gregor and Newter have never had, and I’ve seen how it has affected you all. I’ve tried to do my best to provide you with spaces like the Palanquin where you can step back from your cape personas, but it’s a poor substitute for the real world. Go to Dehli, lose yourself in it for a few days, and come back to me with a clear head. That’s an order.”

“Well, when you put it like that…” I begin, before sighing and speaking again, genuinely this time. “Thanks, boss.”

“Just doing my job,” she replies. “I’ll message you your bank details. Have fun.”

“You got it.”

She hangs up, and I slip my borrowed phone back into the borrowed pockets of my borrowed trousers. I lean back on the railing and look over the compound for a few minutes, before abruptly throwing my arms in the air.

“Fuck it. I need to buy new clothes anyway.”

<|°_°|>

I can hear the music from across the street; always a good sign. The club is a fairly small affair, but there’s still a bit of a line outside. If this were the Palanquin, I’d have just breezed past the bouncers, or snuck in through the back. As it stands, I’ll have to wait. At least I’ve got enough of a buzz to tide me over, and the place doesn’t look like the sort of upmarket crap that’d kick me out for what I’m wearing.

I tried looking around the fancy places in the heart of the city, but none of them really felt like _me_. So, I went a little further afield, trawling through the livelier areas of the city until I found what I was looking for. The low-cut tank top and fraying jeans feel much more comfortable, and a lot more nostalgic. My still-fresh feet mean that going barefoot isn’t a great idea, so I’ve bought a pair of combat boots in a concession to my line of work.

My long hair was just as irritating as long hair has ever been so I went to a fairly punk looking hairdressers and got it shaved back on the sides and swept the rest to the left so that it hangs a little over my face. Finally, the face in the mirror was one that I could almost recognise, though I could still feel the absence of my tattoos. All I’d need to complete the look is the jacket, but I couldn’t find one like it so I bit the bullet and paid to have it custom-made.

Luckily, I’m not waiting in line long enough for the buzz to fade. I don’t have any troubles getting in, either. The club isn’t as nice as Palanquin. It’s built into the cellar of a building with brick walls, a low ceiling and local music pounding out of a massive sound system. The flaws don’t matter to me. In fact, they just add to the atmosphere.

I buy a drink and just wait for a while, watching the people move about the space like I used to watch from the VIP room of the Palanquin. There’s so much life in them, so much motion and emotion. I feel closer to them than I have in a very long time, but I still need to take the last step so I polish off my drink and stride into the writing mass of humanity.

I’m buffeted about by the crowd, with no space to even attempt anything like a proper mass. We just throw ourselves at each other, letting ourselves be carried away by the people around us, by the lights and the music. I find myself laughing, ducking in and amongst the crowds, locking eyes with strangers and sharing brief, passionate, glances before I spin away. The music rises, and my spirits crescendo with it. Eventually I stagger out of the mosh pit, tired but still eager, and order myself another drink at the bar.

I lean back against it, my elbows resting on the polished wooden surface, as I look out across the club, nursing at my drink. Across the room, past the packed crowd, a few people are sitting in booths and across sofas. I can see one group, a guy and two girls. One of the girls is whispering in the others ear, and both are occasionally glancing across the room at me. I meet their gaze, and they flinch back before breaking into giggles.

I purse my lips, lost in thought for a few moments, before I kick off the bar and push my way across the club, sliding onto the sofa right next to them and setting my drink down on the table, leaning back in the chair as one girl laughs and the other just looks flustered.

I turn to her, drape an arm over her shoulder, and smile.


	97. Gateways: 14.05

I practically sink into the leather of the seat. It seems that government work comes with perks, chiefly a very nice sedan and a private driver. Not enough perks to breeze through the checkpoint, unfortunately, so I fish about in my pocket for the temporary ID I’ve been given, showing it to the stern-faced guard who takes one look at me and scowls. They always scowl. It’s almost funny watching that scowl stiffen up into a sharp salute as he spots Eve and Blasto in the back. It’s my last night before I leave, and Blasto decided to invite me out for a curry to celebrate. I strongly suspect it was Eve’s idea, which has me very suspicious.

As the car pulls out of the airbase and onto an expansive six-lane road I lean back into my seat and shrink beneath the hood of my waist-length jacket. It’s not a perfect replica of the one I used to own, because that’s not the sort of thing you can replicate. It was covered in patches, eighteen different symbols, logos and flags, each one representing a different victory in a different arena. Even if I could remember what all the patches looked like, it wouldn’t be the same.

No, I can’t recapture that old story, so I told a new one. There are twelve patches on my jacket, custom made in a little shop in a backstreet of New Dehli. Each one tells a story: the first is on my left shoulder, the letters PRT within a winged shield. Memories of the heroes we’ve fought, but also out time working for them. The Red Gauntlet’s emblem, an armoured fist imposed over a globe, and the seal of the FBI, a set of scales on a shield, are beneath it, for the first and second pieces of mercenary work I ever took.

Most of the badges are representations of the enemies we’ve fought and beaten: the city crest of Pittsburgh, a black shield bearing three golden coins and a line of blue and white check, for the Steel Company, for the moment I started to limit myself to fit this world; a lance with a pennant flowing from the spearpoint for the Canadian Guild, a memory of my defeat and my time in captivity; the letters ABB, stylised and graffiti-like in red and green, for the first hints of the cruel reality of capes and the world they’ve made; a stylised sheriff’s star flanked by pistols for the Lone Star Rangers, the actors putting on a show for a baying crowd; a blue M, bisected by a line, for the Merchants, the uncomfortable reminder of everything I’d left behind; and finally, an S and a 9, an unobtrusive reminder of the hardest fights I’ve ever faced.

Other badges, the ones that matter the most, are symbols that are a little less blatant. For Blasto and all he’s done for me, there is the crest of the Indian armed forces: an eagle, crossed swords and an anchor, beneath a trio of lions. A snarling wolf’s head is next to it, the symbol of Fenrir’s Chosen. It’s a reminder of Cricket, of who she was, who she became and how she died. It’s a warning.

On my left collarbone is a stylised swan in gleaming white. It was once a tattoo given to those who had been released from a Simurgh Quarantine Zone, but it became a rallying symbol for those who protested against such treatment. I wear it, because I know there are still Case-53s trapped in Madison. For the same reason, I’ve stitched a canted omega, or a stylised C, right over my heart. Blasto sanded down the one they branded into my sternum, then regrew the bone, but I wanted some way to tie me to the other people who’ve been displaced by Cauldron.

Pride of place, however, goes to the letters that stretch across my shoulder blades in a jagged and angular font. Palanquin. They’re not the family I started with, but they’re the family I found.

My attention is drawn back to the city as the driver steers us off the main road. This part of town seems to have avoided the unplanned urban sprawl that takes up most of Dehli’s outskirts, but it’s also not one of the upmarket parts either. It’s the sort of place that has restaurants that are fancy enough to have table service, but not so fancy that you’d be glared at for showing up looking like I do.

The car pulls up in front of one such door and I step out. It’s the evening, but it’s still uncomfortably hot. Maybe I should have waited until I was in colder climates before wearing the jacket, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made for style. Besides, it’s nothing compared to London in high summer. Eve and Blasto get out of the back as Eve thanks the driver. She’s dressed in jeans and a sensible-looking blouse, while Blasto is wearing a frankly garish Hawaiian shirt.

Eve’s reserved a table for us, in a little booth out of the way of most of the restaurant’s foot traffic, and the waitress leaves us our menus without a word. I flick through trying to make sense of it all, as Eve speaks up from across the table.

“Everything’s ready for tomorrow. I wasn’t able to secure permission for your aircraft to land at the base, so I’ve arranged a truck to carry your… cargo to the air freight terminal at Indira Gandhi international airport.”

“I appreciate it,” I reply. “That, and everything else you two have done for me.”

“Hey, your money’s green,” Eve leans back in her seat, sharing an indeterminable look with Blasto, sitting opposite her.

“So how’s the interdimensional portal business treating you, anyway?”

I snort, chuckling a little as she looks at me with a bemused smile.

“It’s fucking mental. You know, six months ago I’d never left the British Isles. We weren’t living pay check to pay check, but that’s just because we weren’t in the kind of work where you don’t get pay checks. We won fights, and the pay-outs were good, but the lion’s share of it went towards maintenance costs. We figured it was worth running a more expensive beastie. Everyone could feel that the sport was about to blow up, to become really fucking big.”

The waitress comes up again and I pause as we all place our orders. I go for what I’m fairly confident is a curry and a pint of the local swill. Blasto gets something fizzy and non-alcoholic, while Eve goes straight for a cocktail.

“And then it all came crashing down. I wake up on the wrong side of the Atlantic, without a penny to my name and with at most two weeks before I wither up and die. But I got lucky, _incredibly_ fucking lucky. I ran into the Crew, and they took me on. They led me to you, and you fixed me up. We fell into this nice rhythm goin’ from job to job, working for a whole bunch of weird bastards. Then Leviathan hit Brockton Bay.”

“Shit,” Blasto leans forwards, “you were there for that?”

“No, thank fuck. We were in Arizona at the time. But we came back, and everything had fucking changed overnight. Suddenly we were on the defensive, trying to keep our safe haven safe. Then the Slaughterhouse Nine came, and we got stuck fighting _them_ off. After that, we finally had to cut our losses, leave the city. A few weeks later, we started up with the portals.”

I frown, idly sipping at my beer for a few moments.

“The last few days before I left were fucking _wild_. We’d gone from some fairly low-level mercs handling grunt work to being courted by every fucking government agency in the States. Then we jet off to the Middle East to do the same in some country I’ve never heard of. Everything on Faultline’s level is going over my head, and I kind of felt a little useless. Not much call for leg-breaking in our new job, and leg-breaking is all I’m good for.”

They don’t really seem to know what to say to that. A few minutes pass in awkward silence, as I try a couple of times to break the ice by asking inane questions about the two of them. The trouble is that I’ve been aware for a few days, long enough to exhaust any topic of conversation that doesn’t touch on one of the many secrets we’re keeping from each other. They have things they can’t talk about, and so do I.

I’m fairly sure they’re working something on the side, going behind the backs of the Indian government. Eve was perhaps a bit too quick to turn off her monitor when I decided to go wandering through their office block, and Blasto kept on looking at his phone and grinning like a fucking schoolgirl. Still, it’s not my business to pry. If they want to fuck over the government, it’s no skin off my back.

Eventually, the food arrives, and we can hide our lack of conversation by focusing on eating. Even so, I find myself idly looking around the restaurant. It’s mostly packed with couples or people who look like they’ve just got off work, but there’s a few families here and there. The TV is on, but there’s no sound. It’s showing the news, an Indian cape in a frankly tastelessly gaudy costume giving a press conference.

“They go for that here too?” I ask, pointing my fork at the television. “All this costumed heroism lark?”

“Eeh,” Blasto waggles his hand in an indecisive manner, “sort of. Honestly, I don’t really pay much attention to it.”

Across from him, Eve sighs. I wonder if she was always this sensible, or if she became sensible to deal with Blasto? Her absurd cocktail suggests it’s the latter.

“The Indian cape scene is roughly divided between the Garama and the Thanda. Both are organisations, but the names are also used to represent the broader culture both groups represent. It’s all very historical, and I’ve read a few journals that suggest they’re representative of the conflicting Western and Eurasian influences that have been part of India for centuries.”

“When did you start to read _journals_?” Blasto asks, apparently genuinely confused.

“About the same time you quit smoking pot,” Eve replies nonchalantly. “I had to do _something_ to fill in the time, and it looked like I needed to become the sensible one.”

“ _Sensible_? Why don’t you show Sonnie your tatt-” She skewers a piece of chicken with her fork and jams it into his open mouth, effectively silencing him. She really can move fast when she wants to.

“You’ve got ink?” I ask, innocently enough.

“ _No_ , _I don’t_.” She seems torn between glaring at me and Blasto, before eventually pulling her fork out of her mouth and continuing with a sigh.

“The Garama organisation are pretty similar to the Protectorate. They’re government run, government funded, and are integrated into India’s Parahuman law enforcement agencies. They’re deliberately flashy and extravagant,” she says, gesturing to where the cape was animatedly emoting all over the TV, “because it’s reassuring, and helps people separate Parahuman activity from their everyday life. There are a lot of other corporate or independent hero teams that emulate the Garama, as well as a few villains who do it because they think it leads to lighter sentencing.”

She pauses to take a few bites of her meal and another sip of her drink.

“The Thanda are pretty much the exact opposite of that. If the Garama learned from the Protectorate, the Thanda learned from the Red Gauntlet and the Chinese Union-Imperial. The Thanda organisation are a terrorist organisation, a spy agency and a secret society all rolled into one. Officially, the Indian Government has them classified as dangerous terrorists, but they think of themselves as a heroic organisation, one that’s prepared to go to any lengths to achieve victory.”

Her eyes drift over to the television again, before turning back to me.

“Culturally, Thanda capes prefer to work in secrecy, but, when they do act, they do so brutally and decisively. Five years ago, when the CUI tried to annex Nepal, the Thanda detonated large parts of the Himalayas and buried whole brigades beneath mountains of rock and snow. Nobody really knows what happened next, the CUI is cagey at the best of times, but seismologists watching Tibet picked up readings suggesting the Thanda counterattacked with explosions the same magnitude as a low-yield nuke.”

“Nasty,” I mutter to myself. “So where do you two fit in all of this?”

“We’re something of a special case,” Eve says, leaning back in her chair a little and looking at Blasto.

“I didn’t want to be part of the public side of cape business anymore,” Blasto says, quietly. “I figured it was time to get serious.”

“We work directly for the Indian Military,” Eve explains. “Rey works for their research division, while I’m one of a few covert capes the Indian military likes to keep on hand for a rainy day. Of course, we’re both basically independent from the usual command structure. They like us, and that gets us a lot of leeway.”

On the other side of the restaurant, a man in a business suit asks one of the waitresses to turn on the volume for the TV. It’s switched from the Garama cape, now showing what looks like a recap of a news conference outside… outside the PRT building in Brockton Bay. Chevalier takes the stage, along with Miss Militia, a hero in forest-green and gold armour I don’t recognise, the Brockton Bay Wards and a girl in what looks like a prison jumpsuit. The ‘stage’, if you can call it that, is the wing of an immense mechanical Dragon, far larger than the one we fought in Canada, lifted five feet off the ground and illuminated by floodlights.

“Today, not two hours ago,” Chevalier begins, “Alexandria was killed.”

My brain grinds to a halt.

“She was _what_?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Eve asks. “It’s all the news has been talking about for hours.”

“No, I…” I don’t watch the news. I’ve never paid attention to shit like that, and now it’s fucking blindsided me. Looking around, most of the customers have probably also heard the news, but there’s still a few who are watching with rapt attention.

“Alexandria was a veteran among capes,” Chevalier continues. “She was one of the first capes, one who was present for almost every major catastrophe in the last twenty years. With every challenge she surmounted, she reaffirmed our belief in her, showed us how strong she was, how impervious and noble she was.”

He lowers his head in a show of respect. What is this, damage control? He was there at Echidna; he knew what Alexandria did. What’s this _really_ about?

“If that was it, this would be hard enough. But she was a mythic figure in her own way. She was a living symbol, recognized across the world. She was a leader among us. She was a friend to some of us.”

Chevalier pauses, taking a moment to look over what must be a massive gathering of reporters.

“And she was a traitor.”

My jaw hangs open for a moment before I school my expression. Has the Protectorate decided to more openly purge Cauldron from their ranks? Is this whole thing about to be blown wide open?

The reporters start to shout a hundred questions, but Chevalier’s voice is boosted by hidden speakers and he cuts them off.

“When Alexandria was slain, earlier today, it was done by individuals standing on this stage. There are individuals out there right now, who have kept quiet about recent events. Only last month, there was an event in this city, a threat that was theorized to be a nascent Endbringer. In the wake of that event, Alexandria was revealed to be partially responsible.”

It’s true, but I can’t help but notice that it’s not the _whole_ truth. They don’t want to risk open warfare with Cauldron, so they’re obfuscating their intentions. Just like we are.

“ _Good_ capes, burdened by conscience, walked away from the PRT. Without them to serve as our backbone, we were left gutted. There has been rampant speculation on what has been going on within the PRT, on what might have caused so many capes to abandon it. We – _they_ – couldn’t speak because Alexandria held a position of power, because she was purportedly invincible, unassailable. Because of the threat she posed, and the resources she had at her disposal.”

A handy excuse for the Irregular’s departure, and for the quiet purge of their vial capes that’s been going on since Echidna. It was only getting started when I came to India, but it looks like they’re a little further along now. Far enough to strike at the Triumvirite directly. I wonder if this was an attempt to detain Alexandria that went wrong, or if they really did just execute her?

“Some of us left, because their consciences couldn’t bear serving a corrupt power. Others, many of us on the stage included, stayed, because we felt the PRT, the Protectorate, the Wards program and the teams that draw on us for resources were too important. I’m not here to say one decision was better than the other, or to lay blame with those who sided with her. In coming weeks and months, our capes, accountants and lawyers will be meeting with anyone and everyone in a position of power within the Protectorate program or the PRT, ensuring nothing of this scale occurs again.”

And there’s the spin. The cat’s finally out of the bag, and everyone knows the Protectorate is institutionally corrupt, even if they don’t know _why_. Chevalier can’t risk antagonising the Irregulars or the heroes who genuinely resigned or even the ones they quietly kicked out, but he still has to defend his organisation, however he can.

“Alexandria betrayed us on a fundamental level, and the whole cape community has felt that. The _public_ has felt that. I urge people not to blame her. She had no less than eighteen fights against the Simurgh. We had been led to believe her powers rendered her immune, but she was clever enough to hide and alter the evidence. She was a victim, and it’s a testament to her character that she fought off the Simurgh’s influence for as long as she did.”

So that’s the cover story; blaming everything on the Simurgh. It’s clever, and it lets them handily avoid drawing the attention of Cauldron and their combat Thinker while still moving against their assets. I wonder how many other ‘Simurgh victims’ they’ll find in the next few weeks?

“It was due to a concerted effort this evening that we were able to stop Alexandria before more damage could be done.”

Someone turns off the TV, and I realise the whole restaurant has fallen silent. It’s not the shocked silence I’d expect from people who haven’t heard the news. It’s expectant, pregnant with anticipation. I look around the room, and see that every diner has stopped eating. Every single one of them is looking right at our table.

I hear the chair across from me being pulled out and I turn to look as a stranger sits at my table. They’re indistinguishable in every possible way. It’s like my thoughts just slip away whenever I try to get a handle on their race, their sex, even their appearance seems fluid and ever shifting. And yet I know it isn’t. My brain simply refuses to identify their features. A Stranger.

“It all comes back to the night of the twentieth of June,” they speak, in a voice without accent, pitch or tone. “In Brockton Bay.”

Their eyes flick over to the TV, and I think a smile passes across their lips.

“One day, the Protectorate is as strong as it has ever been. The next, the Triumvirate’s movements are being monitored, Watchdog are racing to clean house and mass resignations start up, both voluntary and involuntary. Over the next few weeks, eighteen different Protectorate and PRT personnel are assassinated by unknown forces. Brockton Bay was the catalyst, and your company of mercenaries were there at its heart.”

I scowl, staring at them across the table. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out these must be the Thanda, and it doesn’t take one to figure out how they found us. I turn to Eve, ignoring the Stranger.

“You set this up.”

“We did,” she replies, her answer almost disinterested. “We… cooperate on certain endeavours, and they had questions.”

I turn back to the stranger, who’s still sitting there impassively.

“You know I’m not really here, right? You’re talking to a meat puppet.”

“We’re aware,” they answer, like it doesn’t matter.

I blink, and look out into Blasto’s lab. Everyone’s gone home for the evening, so the place is only lit by red emergency lights. About half a dozen men are standing around the room, two on the doors while the rest watch me. They’re dressed as soldiers, but I know they’re not. Four of them are holding rocket launchers, but they’re pointed at the ground. It’s the potential for violence, rather than a direct threat, conveyed in a language I’m well familiar with.

I blink again, schooling my face so as not to give the Stranger the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.

“Don’t know why you’re talking to me,” I smile. “We’re just mercenaries; we go where the money is.”

“Don’t play ignorant. We’ve been monitoring your activities. Your group has been busy in your absence, opening portals, yes, but also acquiring immense resources and vague promises of cooperation. You have allied yourselves with the Irregulars, ostensibly a heroic organisation. All the while, Faultline continues to make covert inquiries and investigations, now supported by one of the largest private intelligence agencies in the world. You are acting against whatever happened in Brockton Bay.”

I fall silent, struggling to find a way out of this fucking mess.

“You’re wrong,” I say, causing them to stiffen. “We’re not going after anybody.”

Fuck. On the one hand, this is a _very_ dangerous situation, but on the other, the Thanda sound like exactly the sort of organisation the boss is keeping an eye out for. The very fact that they’re so interested shows that they’re not involved.

“Eighteen dead, is that the current count? You know why they died, as well as I do. Because they _talked_. Maybe it was a whispered confession to their significant other, maybe it was an attempt to go to the papers and blow the whole thing wide open, it doesn’t matter. They talked, so they died.”

I lean back in my seat, deliberately ignoring the dozens of fake ‘customers’ surrounding us.

“You lot seem like the type to appreciate a good conspiracy. I assume you’re familiar with all the old favourites? The New World Order, the Security Council, the Illuminati? Secret societies pulling the world’s strings from the shadows, knowing far more than they ought and with agents in the places you’d least expect? Of course, you’ve got some wonderful variations on the idea. With Masters and Thinkers about, it’s easy to imagine a group that can predict your next move before you’ve made it, can stop an information leak by killing someone before it happens. How can you possible fight something like that?”

This dilemma is one we’ve been working with for a while now. How do you gather allies against Cauldron when Cauldron have a precog that can track down a small investigation to an empty hotel beside a dead city? How do you fight someone who can see you coming?

“You don’t. You want to know who we’re acting against? _Nobody_. Not a single group or organisation on this world _or any other_. We’re gathering resources, yes, building alliances and promises of cooperation, yes, but fighting? Never.”

Not until one of us, whether that’s Palanquin or the Irregulars, can find a way to neutralise their combat Thinker and the Custodian Shamrock spoke of.

How do you beat an enemy that can see you coming?

You don’t. You gather resources, build up strength, waiting and hoping that they’ll make a mistake or that you’ll get lucky and find a weapon strong enough that it doesn’t matter if they see you coming. At that point, you let loose everything you’ve been holding back. You crush them, in a single blow.

The Thanda stranger pauses, staring right into my eyes for a few moments before leaning forward in their seat.

“You have given us much to think of. Thank you for your cooperation. The Thanda owes you a boon.”

They stand up, walking briskly out of the bar as all the other customers return to their meals. I don’t know why they bothered; the mood is thoroughly fucked. I blink, briefly watching the false soldiers slip out of the lab, before returning to the table and turning to Blasto. At this point, I’m debating whether or not to stab him. I owe him a lot, but this was a hell of a fucking thing to pull out of nowhere.

“That’s a hell of a risk you’re taking, Blasto,” I say, unsure of whether I’m talking about working with the Thanda or setting this whole thing up.

“Risk?” He turns to me, looks me right in the eye with a steady gaze. “Sonnie, risk is a fucking _lie_. It’s an excuse we use because we’re too afraid to take the first step. It’s how we limit ourselves, hold ourselves back from really achieving anything. I’m going to build beautiful things, Sonnie, and I’m not going to let anything stop me. But there are some things that I know the government wouldn’t approve of, so I went to someone who would. I’m not going to let anyone shackle me down ever again.”

He leans back, something approaching a smile on his face.

“If I wanted to limit myself, I’d have stayed in fucking _Boston_.”

I don’t know what to say, don’t know if there’s anything I _can_ say. I’m amazed at the fire I’ve lit in Blasto, at how different he is from the stoned sawbones I first ran into in Boston. He’s driven, ruthless, and willing to do whatever he has to in order to achieve his dreams. It’s almost admirable.

I smile, spearing a piece of chicken and biting in, until my smile is replaced by a scowl.

“My curry’s gone cold…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chevalier's speech was from Cell 22.6


	98. Gateways: 14.06

I hand the cashier a light green and turquoise note, pocketing the change before picking up the bottle and the paper bag and stepping out of the shop. It’s a warm day, with only a few clouds in the sky, and I spend a moment just taking in the smells of the city. Unfortunately, most of those smells are petrol fumes.

I hastily cross the street to the lay by, where the rented box truck is waiting for me. It’s been a while since I’ve been behind the wheel of a proper rig and, while the box truck is a hell of a lot smaller than the Predators’ old lorry, there’s something comfortably familiar about the extra height the cabin gives me. I climb in, turn the radio onto what’s apparently considered music in this day and age, unscrew the lid of the bottle and take a deep drink of cola.

I lean back, idly drumming my fingers on the dashboard, before reaching into the bag and pulling out my pasty. I’ve got lucky; it’s still warm. I take a bite, feeling the overprocessed beef and the vegetables that somehow manage to be unhealthy. I know it’s not good for me, but I don’t care. It tastes of hanging out with my mates under the ginger line; of hurried bites as I rushed around, fetching and carrying for Jacob’s Banshees; of the only meal in a day, when things were at their worst and I was just another drifter kid, scraping pennies to get by. It tastes like home.

Once the pasty’s gone and my drink is empty, I turn the engine on, slip the lorry into gear and set off, panicking a little as I fuck up the clutch. Figuring out this fucking petrol engine isn’t easy, but I refuse to be beaten by a fucking lorry, even a fucking primitive oil-burning one like this. Fortunately, I’m able to get a handle on it by the time I pull out of the services and onto the M4. Sure, I have a few scares every now and then, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m just happy to be back behind the wheel.

I start to pass familiar names, if not familiar places. Heston, Osterley, Brentford and Chiswick. The roads are less busy, even as they’re filled with the din of petrol engines. The buildings are smaller; rows and rows of terraced or semi-detached houses with small front gardens and fenced-off gardens around the back, little patches of green that help make the city a little bit more colourful. A far cry from the endless rows of tenements and flats, interspersed with a few so-called ‘green’ spaces wilting under the heat.

The road rises into a flyover, passing over the tangled web of streets below, and for a few moments I can see over the endless rows of low-rise terraces, can see the whole city unfolding around me. The first thing that hits me is how much sky there is, perfectly blue and free from distortion. I can see clusters of skyscrapers rising out of the metropolis: The Square Mile, Southwark and Canary Wharf. They’re signs of things to come, small clusters of jagged needles imposing themselves on the surrounding city.

And then the flyover drops off as I enter Kensington and I lose sight of the city as I return to the streets below, turning off the wide expanse of the A4 as I pass Earl’s Court. The streets here are a narrow chasm two lanes wide, passing beneath mismatched buildings in the competing styles of a century’s worth of development. Moving the box truck through this space is hard, and I have to fight the clutch every step of the way, but, somehow, I’m able to manage it.

I pass through Chelsea, all posh cars and expensive houses, but I don’t really see it. It was never a part of the city I was interested in: too safe, too middle class, too _lifeless_. I didn’t belong there then, and I certainly don’t belong there now. So I ignore Chelsea and all its pretentiousness until I turn left and end up on the embankment.

Now _this_ is something worth seeing. It’s so… _strange_ to see the river like this, without the shadow of the M500 overhead, with fewer bridges and no piers. It’s free, even beautiful, and the embankment is lined by trees and small parks. If I had the time and the space to park this thing, I’d happily spend an hour or two looking out across the river, watching the traffic pass me by. Which is why I’m surprised that nobody else is doing so. The people on the pavements don’t seem to notice their green spaces, instead walking hurriedly through them like they’ve got somewhere better to be. It’s frustrating.

I turn onto Chelsea bridge, enjoying a brief moment where there’s water on both sides of me, the river stretching out briefly before being hidden by the bends on either side. To my left, a couple of trains cross Grosvenor bridge, the first looking long-distance while the second is from the Overground. I can see people standing and sitting in the carriages, some looking out onto the river while others are engrossed in newspapers, books, phones or just staring blankly at nothing in particular.

I pull off the bridge, and into a Battersea that looks nothing like what I’m used to. There’s an enormous park ringed by modern-looking luxury flats. It’s an upmarket part of town, rather than the half-abandoned district slated for demolition and reconstruction. That, more than anything, helps me understand that this isn’t my London. It’s familiar enough to pull at my heartstrings, but this isn’t the city I grew up in, the city that made me.

I cut through Clapham briefly before pulling into an industrial estate sandwiched between crisscrossed railway lines. There’s activity here, but it’s more regulated than the chaos of the city. Lorries are loading and unloading in marked bays, forklifts ducking in-between them carrying pallets of goods. It’s the kind of work I understand; hard graft that makes sense, not some abstract white-collar shit that only makes sense to stuck-up white-collar bastards.

The warehouse I want is on the edge of the estate, sandwiched between a furniture rental company and a secure cash depot for a private security firm. It looks new enough, or at least it’s not fallen into disrepair to the same extent as some of the other places around here. More to the point, it’s secure behind a chain link fence topped with razor-wire, and watched over by a security guard in a black jumper who steps out of his little pillbox as I get closer.

He looks at the license plate on my hired truck and checks it against a clipboard, before pulling open the gate and giving me a friendly wave. I return the gesture, pulling up to the immense doors of the warehouse itself as the guard hits a button in his pillbox and the doors start to roll open. I bring the truck inside, waiting while the doors close behind me before stepping out into the empty warehouse, lit only by sunlight peeking through a couple of windows set high into the walls.

I walk down the length of the box truck, hitting the button that starts to lower the heavy-duty lift at the end. I clamber up onto it once it’s flattened out and open up the rear door, revealing my real body gently resting inside the new tank. With a flick of a switch it starts to roll down the length of the truck and onto the lift, which groans in protest but holds firm. I bring it down to earth and out to a very specific random spot in the warehouse, sitting cross-legged on the concrete in front of it as I wait.

After a while, I start mentally kicking myself for not buying a watch at some point during the last few days of drunken celebration.

After even longer, the air in front of me tears open with a crack as a portal to a green field opens up, a gentle breeze violently imposing itself on the empty warehouse. I stand up, brush the concrete dust off my jeans, and start to walk towards the portal, the tank trundling along behind me. I pass through the barrier, watching the view around me twisting and distorting until I step through the other side and into the empty expanse of a London that’s never known people or buildings.

The only structure for thousands of miles, until you hit one of the other portals we’ve opened up, is the flat platform I’m standing on, no doubt the by-product of the ground beneath the portal being further away than the floor of the warehouse. I look around the empty expense, looking at the woods pressing against the river a few miles away, and turn to spot Faultline, her hand on Elle’s shoulder. She pauses, looking me up and down, before a smile passes across her face.

“That’s about what I expected. Looking good Sonnie; you’re really sticking it to the man.” She’s being sarcastic, but in a happy way.

“You like it?” I ask, spreading my arms wide and giving her a spin. “It takes a lot of care and attention to look this disinterested.”

“I do like it,” Faultline replies, her smile spreading. “Although I am curious as to what made you take this step.”

I snort, leaning against my tank. “It’s like you said, boss; I needed a mask. I hadn’t realised how much I missed being able to pretend I’m not Khanivore.”

Faultline nods in understanding, taking a moment to admire my new tank. Elle’s looking at me in confusion, so I lean closer to her and give her a big beaming smile that seems to settle her. I don’t know if it’s something about the portals, but she always seems more lucid when she’s near them.

“Do you think he’s be open to more work?” Faultline asks, while I’m busy ruffling Elle’s hair.

“Maybe?” I say, a little distracted. “But he’s in deep with the Thanda.”

“The Thanda?” Faultline’s startled tone is enough to draw my attention away from Elle, after setting her hair back to rights.

“Yeah. He’s doing some sort of shady deal with them, going behind the back of the Indian Army. They pumped me for information about Cauldron, but I stuck to the limits you set.”

“You know,” she says, slowly, “one of these days I’m going to stop wondering _how_ you find yourself in these situations and just accept it as an inevitable fact of life.”

I look at her, not entirely sure what she means, until she shakes her head in dismay and asks Elle to change the portal. Palanquin operates under a very strict set of laws arranged by the United Nations. Chief among them is the comforting lie that we can only open portals to Gimel. It lets us sidestep a lot of the legal issues around dimensional travel, and it’s purely coincidental that every portal we open to Gimel knocks another zero off the value of Tattletale’s portal in Brockton Bay.

Not that I’m suggesting the boss arranged our legal status specifically to get back at her teenage archenemy, but everyone has to have a hobby…

The point is that we can only open a portal to Gimel, so that’s where I’m standing right now. Of course, there’s no United Nations on Gimel. No nations at all, except for the small enclaves that are probably creeping up around the portals. It’s a brave new frontier, and that means we can do whatever the fuck we want.

The portal shifts, twisting into a world that looks almost exactly like Gimel. The only difference is the cluster of prefabricated buildings around the platform, our own little outpost in the frontier. I step through into our very own world, a base from which we can strike anywhere we want. I’ve not seen it before – all this got set up while I was under – and I have to say I’m impressed.

Behind me, Elle shifts the portal once more, turning it to another world, one with radically different geography where a mountain blocks the hole. That way, anyone coming down from the portal in Newcastle won’t see anything more than a platform in the wilderness. I follow Faultline as she leads me off to a building large enough to hold the tank, and with all the generators what would be needed to power it. I can see a solar farm stretching out behind one side of our little enclave. It’s an inefficient way of getting power, but it’s sufficient for our needs.

With my tank stowed, Faultline leads me to one of the less business-like buildings, one with windows running down one side that must give it a good view of the river. She takes me upstairs, and steps through into another room. I can hear talking on the other side, can hear the others, but part of me is afraid to take the next step. Then I feel a hand wrapping around my own, small, but larger than I’m used to. Elle.

I step into the room, seeing Newter, Emily and Scrub playing some game on a television, while Shamrock is slumped in an armchair with a book under her nose and Gregor is talking to Faultline. Each of them seems… _larger_ than they should be, but I know that’s just my new perspective messing with my head. I’ve only ever interacted with them through Khanivore, and it feels… different doing it like this. Not better or worse, just different.

Newter turns his head to look at me, letting out a long low whistle as he spots me. Emily’s eyes widen as she takes in what I’m wearing, and how I’ve styled my hair. Shamrock is just looking on curiously, while Gregor is watching me with a look I can’t quite decipher.

I gently slip Elle’s grip, stepping forwards and holding my arms out wide, beaming from ear to ear.

“Guess who’s back?”

“Loving the new look, Sonnie,” Newter says, his game forgotten.

“It’s very… you,” Emily says after a while. I respond by vaulting over the sofa and slinging an arm over her shoulder.

“That’s the look I was going for. I’m very _me_ as well. If you want to be me too, I can help you try and pull it off, but I really don’t think you’ve got the figure for it.”

She elbows me in the stomach, a blow that hits a little harder than it should. Or, at least, feels worse than I’m used to. It doesn’t stop me laughing.

“So this is weird, right? I’m not the only one that thinks that?” Newter asks. “I mean, you’re sitting here, but you’re also in the garage?”

“Yeah, it’s weird,” I sink into the sofa, noticing how it doesn’t creak ominously or break under my massively diminished weight, “but it’s weirdness I’ve dealt with before.”

I lean back, looking up at the ceiling and closing my eyes for a moment.

“It’s good to be back.”

“It’s good to have you back,” Faultline says, leaning against the wall. “If you’re tired from your flight, we can this tomorrow?”

“No,” I lean forwards, shake my head. “I need to do this now, otherwise I’d just keep thinking of ways to put it off.”

“Very well, we’ll meet you downstairs.”

I nod, blinking and bringing my claw up to the console of my pod, running through a last systems check and starting the mechanism to drain the fluid. For the first time since Blasto fixed me up, I set my weight down onto my talons and claws and pace out of my tank, feeling as refreshed as it’s possible to feel. I suppose I could do this in my puppet, but I want it to feel _real_.

The others are waiting outside, and I follow them off the platform of our little compound and onto the verdant grasslands surrounding this world’s Thames. They’ve already scouted out the location for me, based on the hours I spent pouring over maps and photograph’s on Bet’s London. Of course, their city is different to mine. The boroughs might have the same name, but the streets are radically different. Still, I’m as confident in the location as I can be.

I’ve seen Elle use her power so many times now, but it never ceases to amaze. Out of the ground rises a church spire, looking stronger than a ruined place like that has any right to be. It glows with hidden lights, an ultraviolet glow that fills the air around it in a sort of haze. It twists and turns, reinforcing itself and growing more complex until it’s a solid pillar of decaying gothic architecture.

Then Scrub steps forwards, his power flickering through the air around him, and the tower goes up in a flash, instantly becoming a pillar of unnaturally white light that draws in the air around it. I pace over to Elle as she steps forwards, and lean my head in close to her own.

“You’ve felt this world before, Elle. You’ve felt it on me. All you have to do is reach out and find it again.”

She nods, seriously, and the portal starts to flicker as she passes from world to world to world, before eventually stabilising and coalescing into just one. I give her a pat on the shoulder and pace forwards, passing through the gateway.

The church looks different now. It’s still half-lit, but the light is coming from the sun poking through the holes in the roof, a warm light rather than the cold electric glow of ultraviolets. I reach down, scraping at some long-since dried blood on the tiles. The pit looks different with an interdimensional portal in the middle of it, but I can still remember every detail of that fight like it was yesterday. I can see the damage to the walls from where Turboraptor and I battered each other into submission, a graceful dance devolving into a brutal war of attrition.

The others step through the portal, each one of them staring around the space in wonder. It’s one thing to pull a portal to an empty field, it’s another thing entirely to step into an inhabited dimension, to see the divergences with your own eyes. I bring myself up to my full height and look over to them, watching them as they try to place me in this new reality, as I show them the place where I died.

I reach up, gripping onto the arena wall, and pull myself halfway up to the pace where my body had sat, cross-legged, as I fought for my life in the pit. I use my tendrils to help the others up, then clamber up myself and spend a moment looking at the little circle of corded lights that made up my seat. I look behind it, picturing the other Predators moving behind me, watching the fight with bated breath, knowing that a loss would mean they’d have to away two bodies; one in the pit, the other in the circle.

I start to move forwards on all fours, before pulling myself up and onto two legs. I don’t want to walk around here like a wild animal, just like I didn’t want to see it through a false face. Ahead of me hands the long curtains of LEDs that displayed fractal patterns when I entered, now grey and inert. I brush them aside, and step into the long tunnel.

We pass the break room, where Wes staggered in drunk and Ivrina wasn’t far behind. Where the Predators sat and drank and celebrated, while I went off after a girl in a pretty dress. I think that’s the thing I regret most; not spending more time with them. Being with Palanquin has made me realise how important it is to be honest to the people around you; to not talk to them through a false face.

Finally, we find it. The lorry’s long gone, but that doesn’t matter. Every part of this loading bay is etched into my mind, a memory so perfect I feel like I could step into it. That’s where I saw her, staring up at Khanivore. That’s where I pressed her against the glass, between me and the beast. That’s where she slipped off her dress, and that’s where she drove four blades through my skull and lifted me up like I didn’t weigh anything at all.

I wonder what they saw? Cauldron, I mean. They fucked up somewhere, missed some vital clue that told them I wasn’t just a mindless beast. Did they only see the lorry? Did they only see the decrepit church and miss the whole world surrounding it?

In the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter. Whatever they saw, they still took me.

The others hang back, I think they understand. I spend a few moments looking around the space, lost in thought, before turning and walking away. I don’t lead us out the garage exit, instead heading for a set of old wooden doors that are holdovers from the days when this church actually saw worship. I pull on them, but they don’t budge.

Wordlessly, Faultline places her hand on my shoulder and I step aside. She rests her palm against the door, and I hear the crack of metal from the other side as whatever lock was put on this place falls to the floor. She doesn’t open it, instead standing back. I’m glad; this is a step I need to take.

I pull the doors open.

The first thing that hits me is the heat. It’s uncomfortable and unnatural, but I push through it and step out into the decrepit yard, ringed by barbed wire fences. I look over the razor-wire to see the M500, the immense motorway that follows the curve of the river, casting an inescapable shadow over the water. I can just about see the tops of the vehicles in the outermost lane, travelling along at a hundred and fifty kilometres per hour, while an endless stream of trains move in both directions underneath it, suspended on thin polyp-rails.

Behind the M500, and dwarfing it in scale, looms an immense dome, a geodesic of amber-tinted crystals that seem to glow with an almost golden light under the unforgiving sun. The Central-North Dome is immense, four kilometres wide and squatting over most of Westminster, supported by comparatively tiny struts of orbit-grown fibre. Beneath that golden dome, the ancient buildings of Westminster huddle for shelter against a world they were never meant to see.

The sky on either side of it is splintered by the frameworks for similar domes in Chelsea and Islington, construction looking a little further along than when I last saw this view. This yard, and the church in it, is slated for demolition as part of the proposed Central-South Dome, another part of London sealing itself away from the hostile world it’s responsible for creating.

The sky is blue, but where Bet’s London was tranquil, my London is violent. The sky itself shimmers with the heat of twenty-five million air conditioning nozzles. Ten of the largest are on the roof of Central-North, spewing enormous pillars of pure heat into the sky. They’ve had to close all the airways over it, for fear of what those lightless flames would do to airflows.

It’s a city on the brink, packed full of people and sheltering from a hostile world. It’s a city of contradictions, of immense megastructures and arcologies amidst decaying buildings and estates. It’s the city I grew up in, the city that shaped me until I ran into the Banshees and finally left it. It’s the city I died in, leaving behind the people I was supposed to care about.

They’re out here somewhere: Jacob, Karran, Wes and Ivrina. Four people, in a city of thirty million. I owe them so much, and now I have a chance to repay the debt. All I have to do is find the needle in the haystack.

After everything I’ve gone through, how hard can it be?


	99. Interlude 14 - Ivrina

**27.02.2069**

It hasn’t been this cold in a decade. The weather forecast is scrambling to explain it, scrambling to figure out how this happened and what’s going to happen next. The truth is, it’s not the sort of thing that can be known. There’s no way of figuring out how the air currents flow anymore, not when they’re buffeted about by ever-shifting air currents and funnelled between the endless heat-emissions of ever-growing urban sprawl.

Ten years ago, they’d have said it was impossible to get a hurricane in Europe. The truth is, nobody knows what’s coming next. This freak bout of cold is proof; it’s caught the city almost completely by surprise. The religious geezers, the real nutty ones, say it’s God’s attempt to restore balance. We pump heat into the atmosphere, so He sends down cold from above. I think they’re right, but not in the way they think. There’s nothing _divine_ here; it’s just cause and effect.

I’m shivering, fighting the urge to huddle in on myself for warmth. I thought I was going out on the town tonight, so I dressed expecting to go from club to club, planning on being too drunk to notice the cold weather on the trips between each venue. I’m not even wearing a fucking shirt, just a jacket I can’t zip up that barely covers anything at all. I’m not dressed for the cold.

But the tower block is on fire, a scorching wall of flame slowly creeping up the side, pausing at the firebreaks before crawling up people’s washing lines, all the little pieces of clutter that have gathered on the balconies. Already I can see fire suppression systems, rusted and well below spec, clattering into life on the other segments of the tower block, drowning it in water to save what it can, to keep the blaze contained until the fire brigade gets here.

The heat of it is like a wall of force, but I’m still shivering. The surgical nurse in me, disgraced and devoid of license she may be, can recognise what’s really going on. I’m having a panic attack. I’m trembling, my limbs are shaking, there’s a ringing noise in my ears, it’s getting hard to breathe, though that could be the smoke, and I feel like I need to piss even though I never even made it to pre-drinks. I can recognise the symptoms, but that doesn’t make them any easier to deal with.

Fuck. I need to get a fucking hold of myself. I look around, desperate to latch onto something other than my own pathetic shivering. It doesn’t help; I’m surrounded by fire and death. There aren’t many of the Sikh’s men in the courtyard right now, but they left about a dozen bodies behind. Very few of them are theirs. The Sikh’s boys – the real heavy-hitters who are storming the block itself – have a fucking terrifying reputation, affinity-linked to their mastiff-servitors to the point where the lines between beast and man start to become blurred.

The Sikh himself is standing in the courtyard, looking up at the burning building with a sick and satisfied smile on his face. He’s a mountain of muscle, two meters tall, his thick wool coat doing nothing to hide his bulk. It’s all natural, too. No cheats or quick surgeries, beyond the minor gene tailoring that’s practically commonplace in our circles. The hounds at his feet, on the other hand, are a masterwork of bitek, closer to the size of tigers than dogs. They don’t get to go out much, he mostly uses them for intimidation, and one of them is gnawing eagerly on a body like it’s getting a rare treat.

The people who run this estate are the Sikh’s enemies, rivals and irritations he’s wanted to deal with for a while. It’s why we came to him, it’s why he was quick to accept and it’s why he didn’t ask for much in return for his assistance. But not much debt is still debt; it’s still something he can hold over us until we make things right with him.

Not that it matters. Any amount of debt would be worth even the chance to save Sonnie. But it won’t be the debt that decides whether she lives or dies. It won’t even be the Sikh and his heavy-hitters. That weight is on _my_ shoulders, and I don’t know if I can bear it.

The heavy fire doors at the base of the tower slam open as a hound pushes against them, bounding down the ramp to the courtyard and standing guard as the Sikh’s boys start to make their way out. I can just about see one of them holding up a tiny figure, hidden behind the mass of burly thugs. First out the door is the Sikh’s lieutenant, Rollo, a weasel-faced bastard of a man who doesn’t even pretend he’s not checking me out as he comes up to me.

He doesn’t fit in with the rest of the leg-breakers; he’s Oxbridge filth, with a neatly tailored Saville Row suit and a signet ring on his finger. The straight-edge razor in his hand is dripping with blood, and his hand, ring and the cuff of his suit are all stained red. There’s a manic grin on his eyes, something that’s absent in the eyes of the other men. They’re professionals pulling a job, but he’s a fucking sadist.

He stops right in front of me, taking a moment to slowly look me up and down with a sick grin on his face, before waving over some of the boys. One of them steps out of the crowd, and I almost break down right there and then.

Sonnie… It’s hard to recognise her, at first. She’s soaked in her own blood, her skin blotched and bruised, and she’s covered from head to toe in still-bleeding cuts. Her eyes are open, pleading, but there’s no life in them. Her heart is still beating, though, and that means there has to be hope.

“It was a fucking charnel house in there!” Rollo tells me, his accent chipper and clear, and would it kill him to sound a little less _eager_ about it? “Looks like they were having an initiation. This your girl, sweetheart? There were a few in there, but this one looked the most like the picture.”

_Oh God._

“That’s her,” I stammer out, barely able to control my breathing. Something in me twists, and I practically shout my next words. “Get her in the fucking van, _now_!”

“Alright, alright,” the lieutenant raises his hands, causing another bit of blood to drip down from the blade and onto his sleeve. “No need to get your thong in a twist.”

He waves the grunt forwards and I follow, eager to get away from the slimy little shit, the geezer’s two mastiff-servitors pacing around us. Just outside the front of the estate, our minivan is waiting, Jacob leaning against the rear doors. He throws them open the moment he spots us, and sprints around to leap into the front passenger seat as the street-tough lays Sonnie down in the back. I’m about to shout at Wes to go, when I hear the sound of palms slapping against the still-open rear doors.

I turn, seeing the Sikh holding the doors open, his arms outstretched as he leans into the van. He’s not looking at me or Sonnie, instead looking over us to lock eyes with Jacob.

“I’ve held up my end of the bargain,” he rumbles, “now you hold up yours. That new Beastie of yours fights in my pit, tomorrow. No delays, no last-minute technical problems.”

“We’ll be there,” Jacob replies, his eyes darting between the Sikh and Sonnie, “with Khanivore.”

The Sikh doesn’t reply. He just nods and slams the doors shut. Wes’ foot is on the accelerator the very next moment, and we speed off into the night.

“Slow down,” Jacob says, putting on a cool front even though I know he’s just as worried as I am. He’s always been the rock of our team, the level head amongst all the blazing passions. That’s why he’s our fighter.

“ _Slow down_?!” Wes shouts, incredulous and angry. He’s nothing like Jacob, skinny where he’s bulky and twitchy where Jacob is calm, but there’s a heart in Wes that’s far greater than his size. He cares about Sonnie, and not just because she latched onto him because she wanted to see what it was like to have a _real_ relationship.

“The police will be coming, and a few minutes saved won’t make a difference if they get suspicious. Slow down, Wes. Drive like nothing’s wrong.”

“Fuck!” Wes slams his fists against the steering wheel, but he slows us down to match the sparse three o’clock traffic. Thank fuck it’s night; otherwise this part of Hackney would be rammed with gridlocked cars.

Sure enough, the inside of the van is suddenly lit up by successive flashing blue lights; the rozzers racing to respond to the gang war, and the fire brigade responding to the burning tower block. I can’t see them from where I’m kneeling over Sonnie, my hands working almost entirely off muscle memory, but they don’t stop. We’re clear.

Maybe they’ll get there in time to help the others…

“How is she?” Jacob asks, as I lean over to grab the bag I hastily threw together. Our first aid kit is fucking pathetic – good for scrapes, bruises, shallow cuts and minor burns but nothing like this – so I grabbed what I could from our lorry. That gear isn’t designed for use on humans, but it might just save her life.

“Don’t know…” I say absently, blocking out Wes as he shouts something before being silenced by Jacob. I’m lost in a fucking haze, working through my panic by blocking out everything except for the girl in front of me. I pull a splicer out of the bag and rip the safety tab off the nozzle, taking a deep breath as I hold it up to the first of the cuts, desperately hoping that they’re all knife wounds.

“I’m sorry,” I say to her, even though I know she can’t hear me, and start spraying. The splicer dispenses a thick, plasma-like substance that rapidly grows into fresh cells, mixing as best it can with the cells already there. It’s meant for applying new hide to Beasties, or to repair hide that’s damaged beyond repair. The effect on a body that has a functional nervous system, that can actually feel _pain…_ I don’t know, because the splicer is covered in labels warning against exactly that sort of thing. My best bet is that the new cells connecting to the brain’s sense of touch causes hideous agony, resulting in tremors, perhaps even a seizure.

But Sonnie just lies there, only the faintest spasms showing the new cells are affecting her nervous system at all.

Hurriedly, I reach into the bag and pull out a small device, a rectangular screen about five centimetres long. I stick it on the side of her neck and it adheres to the side of her skin. A few tense seconds later, it lights up with a display showing her pulse, and a number in the corner showing beats per minute. Blood’s still flowing; that’s good. I have adrenaline injectors in the bag, but the dose is strong enough to kill her even at ten percent strength. Only grabbed them because I wasn’t thinking straight.

She’s lost a lot of blood, and I don’t have any in her blood type, or any blood type seen in humans. Her heartbeat is solid at the moment, but her beats per minute are dropping steady, and the spliced flesh on her neck will be affecting blood flow to her brain. It’s meant to bond skin cells, it can’t regrow arteries or veins. She’d be dead before we made it to a hospital.

“The lorry!” I shout forwards, tearing my eyes off Sonnie just long enough to make sure Jacob and Wes heard me. “Like we planned!”

They say something in return, but I’m not listening. I’ve fixed up Sonnie’s cuts, but I can’t do anything more in the back of the van. All I can do, my last fucking hope, is that I can use the proper gear, the heavy stuff that can’t be moved, and _fix_ this.

I cup Sonnie’s cheek, even though I know she can’t feel it. With her eyes wide in silent agony, her lips curled back from her teeth and sliced open in a Chelsea smile, she looks nothing like she did before. Nothing like the eager girl who looks at the world with such wonder in her eyes, who throws herself into anything and everything, enjoying whatever sensations she finds.

She never complains, not even when we all had to cut our pay so that Jacob and Karran could make their interest payments on their student loans and keep the bank from forcing them into corporate work, skimming a ‘finders fee’ from their pay checks. Fuck, she’s already making the least of any of us and she’s never mentions it. Not once. I’m pretty sure the last cut dropped her below minimum wage, but she still doesn’t care.

She just likes being around us, in the heart of things, and we like being around her.

Wes slows the van before bringing it to a stop, and I peek over the front seats to see our lorry parked up next to the caravan, in an alleyway behind a row of derelict low-rise flats. It’s second hand, bought especially to house the clean-room we’re using to build Khanivore. Up till now, the minivan has been our go-to means of bringing Ripperdog from fight to fight.

Jacob opens the door, wordlessly clambering in to put his hands beneath Sonnie’s shoulders while I take her legs. Wes comes over, looking like he wants to hover, until Jacob sends him off to open up the back of the lorry and bring the lift down. Karran is waiting beside the caravan, looking like she’s on the verge of tears. I’ve got almost eight years on her, but she’s the mum of the team. She and Jacob are our nucleus. They’re the ones who started this whole mess, a pair of biotechnology graduates fresh out of Leicester University who decided that the answer to the declining demand for Bitek jobs was to dive into underground pit fights.

We don’t have time to stop and explain things to her, but, as I look into the back of the lorry, I see she’s already done like I asked and set things up for me. Me and Jacob take Sonnie up the lift, setting her down on a metal table in place of a proper gurney. Her heartbeat is dropping steadily now; she’s not bleeding any more, but she’s already lost enough blood for it to have an effect.

Jacob starts to close the doors, shutting me in with my patient. Him and Karran are experts in their field, but they’re not surgeons. I can see the worry in his eyes, and I try to give him a reassuring smile. I’m not sure it works, on him or me.

With the doors shut, the lights running along the length of the trailer flicker into life. It’s split into two sections, with a monitoring room by the doors and a sealed clean room where we’ve been putting Khanivore together. I start to grab at the spare sensors, connecting them up to the right terminals and attaching them up and down Sonnie’s body. They’re not calibrated for a human, but they give me enough of a picture to work with. Enough of a picture to see just how fucked she is.

It’s not just her heart that slowing; her brain is slowly losing functionality, reaching the point where she’ll start to risk permanent brain damage. If I had time, if I had money, if I had the resources of a full fucking hospital at my fingertips, I might be able to keep enough of her in there that she’s not completely vegetative. But I don’t have any of those things, and none of the equipment we have can fix this. All I can do is watch, as her life drains away before my very eyes, fast enough that I can’t do anything about it, but slow enough to give the false illusion of hope.

Tears start to well up, and I find I can’t meet her eyes. I want to apologise to her, to scream and shout at my own impotence, but I know she can’t hear me. I look down, and I’m suddenly struck by just how young she looks. She’s just a kid, a drifter whose life never had the chance to get started, who found a new family only to have it taken away from her.

And then, an idea hits me. A desperate, stupid, dangerous idea. I look left, to the translucent curtain dividing this section of the lorry from the cleanroom, and I start to move. I throw my jacket in the corner, slip my heels off my feet, and climb into my plain white clean suit, brushing my hair away from the faceplate before pulling the hood up and triggering the airtight seal.

I try to lift Sonnie off the table, but I’m not strong enough to carry her. I can’t bring any of the others in, can’t take the risk that they’d try to stop me, so I reach up and pull down the harness from its rail on the roof, looping it under Sonnie’s shoulders and triggering the winch to lift her up. The harness is meant for carrying robust parts that are too heavy for me to manage on my own, and the thick leather band is digging into her skin, reopening closed wounds.

If I can do this, those wounds won’t matter.

I push her past the curtain and into the makeshift airlock, making sure to seal the adaptive material behind me until its air tight. I step under the shower, coating the clean-suit in strong disinfectant that I can smell even though the air-filters. Once I’m clear I pick up the hose, hesitating for only a moment before spraying Sonnie.

Her body twitches and writhes as the disinfectant irritates her skin and seeps into her freshly-opened cuts. I apologise to her, over and over again, a mantra to keep my head in the game and an admission of the guilt I’ll never be able to overcome. But it’ll all be worth it, if I can save her.

Once she’s clean, and the room’s sensors have verified that, the curtain on the other side of the wall unseals itself, revealing the sterile white of the clean room. Khanivore is there, suspended on hooks at the end of the room. Its body is immense, larger than any Beastie in the game. But we didn’t build it to be a brute.

Khanivore is a game changer, in more ways than one. It’s in the name; Khanivore. An apex predator that rules the pit, devouring any competition that’s sent against us. At first, it’ll get by on sheer size, beating the competition until they start to grow larger and tougher Beasties of their own. That’s the trap we want them to fall into. Khanivore isn’t just big; she’s _fast_. Fast enough to run rings around a larger opponent, to go from the brute to the underdog.

But right now, she’s unfinished. Incomplete. There’s not long left to go; the muscle structure is all there. All that’s left is to set up the bioware processors and Jacob’s ANS, to splice the skin onto her body and fit the relevant bones. It’s the work of a day, or a sleepless night with the debut fight tomorrow evening.

More importantly, it means that all the connections for the bioware processors are in place. Connections that are nearly identical to the ones connecting the brain to the body.

With a last effort, I heave Sonnie onto another operating table, wincing a little as she slips the harness and almost hits her head. I check her heartbeat again, still steadily declining, and move over to Khanivore’s console. I pause, clenching my hands into fists as I try to build up the courage to take the next step. I flick a switch, sending a strong electrical current through Khanivore’s hearts, even as blood is mixed and pumped into its body.

The operation itself passes in a haze. I take cutting tools to Sonnie’s head, carefully desecrating her body, adding another insult to all the wounds that already cover her. Artificial arteries are plugged into her brain, to ensure she can survive the transfer, and I take the last step without hesitation, separating her brain from her body and carefully fusing her into Khanivore in an agonisingly slow process.

Once she’s in, once she’s safe, I get to work with the splicer and start splicing the Beastie’s skin together, adding plates of bone around her brain, cradling it like armour. Within an hour, it’s complete, and I see it with new eyes. It’s not just a Beastie anymore; it’s armour I’ve layered around her, the only way I could think of to keep her safe. All that’s left to do is make sure I haven’t just put a dead brain in an artificial body.

I dose her up, drugging her limbs with a paralytic so she doesn’t accidentally thrash herself to death, and stimulate her brain with a minute dose of adrenaline. Her eyes twitch, blinking rapidly as they erratically scan the room. When they lock on me, I know I’ve succeeded. I know she’s safe.

I spot a clock out of the corner of my eye. It’s morning already. Hours have passed, and I didn’t even notice.

“Sonnie,” I say, as calm as I can manage, though my mind is racing at a mile a minute.

“Can you understand me? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

A single blink, and my heart leaps out of my chest.

“Good. Good…”

I peel back my hood and throw aside my mask; there’s no need for them now that Khanivore is sealed up.

“Sonnie… Can you remember what happened to you?”

A pause, then a single blink.

“Okay. Okay.”

I swallow, trying and failing to force the words out of my mouth.

“We got you out, but there were complications. I… I couldn’t save your body. You’re in Khanivore.”

She just stares at me, not reacting at all.

“Do you understand?”

A single blink.

“I’m sorry. I… I _tried_ to save you. _All_ of you.”

I’m crying now. Everything I suppressed during the operation coming flooding out of me in a ceaseless stream of grief.

“There’s a problem,” I say, choking back tears and swallowing to clear my throat.

“To save you, we had to make a deal with the Sikh. He wants Khanivore in his pit. Tomorrow…” another glance at the clock, “tonight. We don’t have time to source another body, and the blood flow in Ripperdog isn’t powerful enough to support your brain.”

She doesn’t react, just hangs there taking it all in.

“We can… we can set something up so that Jacob is piloting Khanivore and you’re just a passenger.”

Two blinks this time, a fast denial.

“You don’t want to fight…” I say, and I completely understand.

Another two blinks. It takes me a second to figure out what she means.

“You don’t want _Jacob_ to control you. Sonnie… I don’t know if we can get out of this. You know what the Sikh’s like.”

She blinks, once.

“You want to fight,” I state, my eyes widening in shock.

Another blink. I think I see something cruel in those eyes, someone who wants to lash out at the world. It’s not a look I’ve ever seen in her before.

“Okay…” I let out a sound that’s half-sigh half-sob. “I… I need to tell the others. I’m sorry, I don’t want to leave you alone right now, but they need to be told. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

She blinks again, and I start to slowly walk out of the room. I want to pause at the threshold, to turn back and tell her that everything’s going to be alright, that we’re here for her, but I just can’t get the words to form in my mouth.

I’m worried, fucking _terrified_ , that I’ve saved her life at the cost of who she really is. I’m worried that she didn’t want to be saved.


	100. Prey: 15.01

I’ve only been on Earth One for a few hours, and I’m already going stir-crazy. As nice as it was to stand under a familiar sun again, to see the Westminster dome and the snaking length of the M500, I was still standing out there in a twelve-foot tall murder-beast. I stepped outside because I had to. Because I needed to prove to myself that it was real and the only way to do that was to see it with my own eyes.

Once I’d seen it, we all slunk back into the church and started to go about the tedious business of making plans. Step one was bringing my puppet in and setting her down in the old green room, on a ratty couch that was rotting away even before this place got abandoned for four-and-a-bit months. Step two involved doing the same, but with various pieces of equipment. Our phones don’t work here, which isn’t exactly a surprise, but we were able to pick up foreign radio stations on our short wave, as useful as that is.

Faultline wanted to call it Earth Dalet, in keeping with the naming conventions used by Aleph, Bet and Gimel, but I shot that idea down fast. What’s the point in labelling them in an alphabet basically nobody uses, and what happens when they run out of letters? Numbers are the only truly universal alphabet and, since I was the first person to come up with that bit of genius, that means my world gets to be Earth One.

Of course, then Spitfire complicated things by asking why our private Earth should be called Earth Two, when we travelled from there to here. But that was easily solved when Newter decided we should just call it Earth Zero, and we all jumped on the chance to avoid any more confusion.

And so, we settled in and made ourselves at home, sending Newter up into the derelict church spire to make sure this place is exactly as abandoned as it seems. Technically, the London Administration Council has zoned this church for demolition so they can put a strut of the Central-South Dome in its place, and, while the bureaucracy generally moves at the speed of bureaucracy, it’s good to check that we’re not going to wake up with a whole load of bulldozers outside.

Once we’re sure our entry point is as quiet and secure as it gets in a metropolis, with new locks put on the doors and a covert surveillance system set up around the yard, Faultline gathers us all together in what must have been Dicko’s old office, a room she’s since claimed as her own. It’s all tacky opulence, just like the man himself, but Faultline makes it work for her.

Most of Dicko’s files were probably on the conspicuously absent computer, but in the circles we both moved in there were things you didn’t want a digital trail for. Old paperwork, yellowed and partially rotted, is spread across various shelves, along with an Ordinance Survey map of the city. The map is spread out across the desk, and we’re all looking down on it as I give them a crash course in London life. I’m using my puppet; my real body wouldn’t fit in the office.

“For transferrable assets,” Faultline begins, “we have gold and gems. The gold shouldn’t be too hard to shift, but the diamonds are all uncertified, and some are uncut. The majority are likely blood diamonds from Red Gauntlet’s operations in South-East Africa. That’ll affect the sale price, but certified diamonds from Bet would be more likely to arouse suspicions.”

“I can think of a couple of people who might be interested in buying,” I say, peering at the map as I lean over the table, “but don’t expect my name to open any doors for you. I wasn’t involved in anything like that. Your best bet is to act as mysterious foreigners to any buyers and not let on where you heard about them.”

I tap the map idly, thinking back over years of pit fights and drifting. We didn’t spend a lot of time in London, not when things really got going, but I still know the city, and I know its people.

“I think your best bet is a man named Mathis Portier. He’s a slimy French bastard who runs a posh jewellery store in Covent Garden and I’m pretty sure handles other business on the side, or knows people who do. He bet large; large enough to be let backstage to have a look at the Beasties before the fight.”

I trace a line along the map, looking up to make sure Faultline gets it.

“Board the Thames line at Chelsea Bridge, just North-West of here. It’s suspended from the M500, follows the line of the river. Get off at Charing Cross, then head North-East till you hit Covent Garden. Can’t remember the name of the shop, but it’s something French and pretentious. Needle in a haystack, I know, but ask around. You’ll find him.”

“Got it,” Faultline says, following the curve of the line on the map, “and paying for the train?”

“Just need to find the nearest cashpoint. We lived cash in hand for the most part, but I’ve got a little shy of a hundred euros squirreled away for a rainy day. Hopefully nobody’s cleared it out while I’ve been gone.”

“Great. And the person you’re meeting with?”

“Alex Lo. He’s a tattoo artist in Lewisham, keeps his ear to the ground if you know what I mean. He and I go way back, and I reckon he’s the best place to start fishing for information on the Predators.”

“Take Shamrock with you. I’ll take Emily to the jewellers. Newter, Gregor, I’m sorry, but I can’t risk you being seen. Keep an eye on Labyrinth for now, but feel free to explore when it gets dark.”

“I understand,” Gregor rumbles. “I’ll keep Elle safe, and check in with our contacts on Earth Bet.”

“Bet it looks better at night, anyway.” Newter says, apparently not hurt by the restrictions.

“It _really_ does,” I say, looking him in the eye. I mean it, too. There’s nothing better than London at night.

“Above all, _be careful_ ,” Faultline says, looking over everyone. “Sonnie might be from here, but this is still another world. There’ll be different rules here, different standards, and they’ve _never seen a cape._ Any power use whatsoever would draw more attention to us than I’m willing to accept at this stage.”

With that, we disperse. Newter, Gregor and Elle hang around here, keeping an eye on our perimeter or just sprawling out over the sofas. Khanivore is staying here as well, so, if shit goes down, I can be up in an instant, provided I don’t mind my puppet collapsing in the middle of the street.

Going out onto the streets feels almost hauntingly familiar. There’s a little disconnect, as I’m still getting used to being less than twelve feet tall, but before too long I’m shifted back into the confident walk I used to have. It’s false confidence, the confidence that comes from knowing that nothing can hurt you because you’re not really there, but it’s comforting all the same.

It takes me a while to remember my bank details, it’s not something I used often even back in the day, but I’m able to hand off a bunch of bills to Faultline, easily enough to get her to Covent Garden and with more to spare for lunch, provided she doesn’t go anywhere posh. Me and Shamrock head in the opposite direction to her, south towards the Overground.

I have to admit, I was worried Faultline’s idea of discreet clothing was purely limited to business casual. That’s fine north of the river, but the south is a different kettle of fish. Fortunately, she’s a lot more tactful than that, which is why Shamrock is currently wearing a pair of skinny jeans and a loose-fitting tank top that’s maybe a little out of fashion, but not enough to be noticeable. She’s not armed, but she doesn’t need to be armed to be dangerous. As for me, I’m not armed either. Then again, I’m not exactly risking anything.

Once we’re through the fuss of getting me and Shamrock some Tube passes, we don’t have to wait long before an Overground train rolls into the station. It’s busy, but not so busy that we can’t sit down. I end up sitting next to Shamrock, with some random kid on the other side of me. Shamrock’s looking around the train like she’s never seen that before, her eyes fixed on the window as we set off.

It’s bright out, and the sun is shining through the windows of the train. At the next stop, the carriage suddenly becomes packed with uniformed schoolkids, coming back from a trip and excitedly chattering as a group of harried teachers keep watch, trying not to lose any of the tykes. I can see some of them looking at me, at my hair and jacket and ratty second-hand tank top, whispering to each other and giggling like they’ve seen something special. They must be from some of the nicer parts of the city, nice enough that someone dressed like me is a novelty rather than normal.

Besides me, Shamrock is smiling as she looks at the kids. It’s a kind of smile that I can’t quite decipher. She looks almost… nostalgic? Something about the kids reminding her of her own time in school?

Of course, the sun and the kids don’t last. They get off at Brixton, changing over to a line that’ll take them out of the city, and the sun is soon covered beneath a forest of tower blocks that spill over the line. Everyone’s got a different name for it. Some call it the stacks, others the towers. People outside the area call it the warrens, or even the pit. London’s a big city, and all those people have to live somewhere. South of the river, a forest of tower blocks rises out of the city, stretching from Wandsworth in the west to Lewisham in the east.

Once it might have been organised chaos, but it’s since devolved into just chaos. A vertical city, walkways stretching between towering estates. A fortress city, with every tower block a castle and every estate a kingdom. It’s hard to bring the police into an environment like that, not quickly. Over time, as responses became slower and slower, people started looking to the people who really held the monopoly of force into the area, and the gangs took control.

At the next stop, three men get on the train. Well, two men and a boy. They’re dressed in ratty clothes, but they’ve _made_ them ratty. Their ears are notched with ritual scars, and I spot the hint of a knife hidden in the jacket of the lead guy. His eyes drift over me, and I nod. He leers back, throwing me off my game a little and almost causing me to slip control of my body.

After a while I realise what’s missing; _my scars_. I never had trouble with them after… after I died. Part of it was attitude; how I moved like someone who wasn’t afraid to die. Part of it was how I dressed, that same carefully-maintained lack of care. Part of it was because I’ve always moved on the periphery of their world, and it’s easy to mimic them. But a lot of it was the scars. The lines I carved into my old body’s face the moment I was in the same room as it, the scars I didn’t let the others heal away.

I looked like I’d gone through a fucking gang initiation. They thought I was one of _them_.

I feel someone moving against me, and turn to see Shamrock huddling in on herself, her eyes darting around the carriage. It’s enough to knock me out of my morose thoughts. I lean into her, getting her to focus on me.

“You alright?”

“Just… I’m not good with tight spaces. I thought this was the Overground?”

“Ah. Well, it was the Overground fifty years ago. Trouble was the ground grew, but the name stayed. I wish I could say it’ll get better, but this is a very dense city.”

“I know,” I can see her struggling to centre herself. “I’ll be alright once I’m used to it.”

She falls silent, leaning back in her seat and looking up at the brief patches of sunlight as we pass parts of the line that haven’t yet been covered in urban sprawl. We change lines, a hectic rush through the crush of people, and soon end up at our destination. Once we’re out of the station, Shamrock starts to breath a little easier. The sky of Catford might be a little line of light in between tiered blocks of shops and flats, but it’s still sky.

The place we’re looking for is up off the road, away from the heat-emissions of the gridlocked traffic. A lot of places are like this now; pedways running above the road with awnings keeping the sun off the people using them. It’s a nice idea, but it also means the police drones that occasionally pass overhead can’t see what’s going on, and they can’t get lower because the heat from the road a few meters below messes with airflow too much. The only option is old fashioned security cameras or more boots on the ground, and both of those are easy to break.

Hidden Dragon doesn’t look like much from the outside. It’s discreet in the same way strip clubs, gambling dens or illegal brothels are discreet, and yet it’s entirely legal. It caters to people who move in that world, who want a chance to live a second life, to go into the city that lies beneath the clean avenues and nice old buildings tucked up safe in their fishbowl.

I can’t see through the windows – they’re either tinted or blocked with something – but the open sign on the door is lit up. What’s stopping me from entering is the knowledge that I could walk away right now, could slip back into the city, vanish through the portal, and nobody would ever know I survived that night in Battersea. I got my second chance; do I really want to come back?

Disgust wells up in me a second later. They were my _family_ , and I disappeared without a fucking word. I owe them more than I can ever repay; the _least_ I can do is tell them I’m still alive.

I push open the door, causing a bell to ring.

Alex is there, leaning against a countertop and looking right at me. He’s just the same as when I last saw him; a man in late middle-age, but who’s still in shape. His jeans are worn, but without any tears, and his black tank top hugs his stomach muscles, exposing biceps that are impressive without being absurd. He doesn’t look surprised at all.

I take a closer look at the door, noting the one-way glass in the frame. Fuck. I’d been standing there having a nervous breakdown in full view of him for, what, about a minute and a half?

“Rumour was that you were dead,” he says, something like a smile creeping across his lips.

“Rumour?” I ask. “You didn’t believe it?”

“If there’s no body…”

“Pretty sure there was a body,” I say, waving Shamrock in and shutting the door behind me. “Several, in fact.”

“And yet, here you are. Looking no worse than you usually do, comparatively. A clone, or something like that?”

“A clone. Fresh out of the tank less than a week ago.”

“I suppose you’re not really here, are you?”

“Does it really matter?” I ask, tilting my head to the side. Alex just sighs.

“I suppose not. You’re here, even if you’re not really _here_. That’s good enough for me.”

“You seem…” Shamrock struggles to find the right word, “unconcerned by her sudden resurrection.”

Alex snorts.

“It’s been, what? Four months? That’s nothing for Sonnie.”

I lean against the wall and turn to Shamrock.

“I was a drifter,” I say by way of explanation. “Alex is one of the few people I knew before I left, and pretty much the only one I stayed in contact with. I’d check whenever I found myself in this part of the country, get some new ink done.”

“And then you left all my hard work on the floor of a derelict church.”

“Yeah…” I say, a little guilt welling up in me.

“I assume that’s why you’re here?”

“Partially. I’ve been out of the loop for too long, figured you were the best person to talk to if I wanted to find out what I missed.”

“How out of the loop?”

Now comes the difficult bit.

“I had to leave the country. Fell in with a crew of mercenaries. Been doing work for them in America these past few months. Never had the time or the opportunity to catch up with the news back home.”

It’s the truth, but not the whole truth, and Alex immediately recognises that.

“That sounds like quite the story. I assume you want the same ink as before?”

“Yeah,” I nod my head. My old ink meant a lot to me. Now that I’m back here, it seems like as good a time as any to sort it out. “I can’t pay you right now, but we should have a windfall coming soon enough.”

Alex pauses, his hand lingering on a light switch. There’s something serious in his eyes.

“I thought I’d lost you, Sonnie. For good, this time. Knowing you’re alive is payment enough.”

I chuckle, if only to stop myself from crying.

“You sappy old bastard…”

He grins and flicks the switch, plunging the shop into darkness for a few brief moments before ultraviolets along the ceiling kick in and bathe the room in their electrifying glow. Alex is almost transformed under the light, electric-blue tattoos covering nearly every inch of his skin. Eastern dragons curl down his arms, intertwining in intricate coiled patters that seem to pulse with hidden light. Next to me, Shamrock gasps.

“The ink only shows up under certain types of light,” I explain to her. “It started as a way for extremists to get tattoos that didn’t show up while they were at work, and it sort of ballooned in popularity from there. There’s no way to tell who has them, unless you shine a UV light in their face.”

Shamrock doesn’t reply, still staring with naked fascination at Alex’s ink. Future shock.

“Where _did_ you find her?” Alex asks me. It’s a fair enough question; you’d be hard pressed to find someone who hasn’t at least seen this sort of thing on TV.

“A neo-Luddite convent, if you can believe it,” I think on my feet. “Won her over with a promise to save her from a life of dull prayer and show her the future, ain’t that right, Shamrock?”

“That’s not quite how I’d put it.”

I take off my jacket and pull my tank top over my head, throwing both aside before laying down in the medical chair set up at the centre of the shop. Alex switches off the open sign and locks the door before picking up his injectors and going to work, tracking familiar patterns across my skin.

“I’m trying to find the Predators, Alex. I need to know what I’ve missed.”

“The first thing you should understand,” he looks up at me, “is that you’re something of an urban legend. The truth of your… let’s say _nature_ , came out a little after you disappeared, as soon as the police got their hands on your body. It’s been clouded by hundreds of rumours and exaggerations, of course, but the gist of it is that mothers now tell their children to behave or Khanivore will climb out of the Underground and gobble them up.”

I can’t help it; I start to laugh. Alex pulls back his needle as my chest heaves and I beam from ear to ear. In the corner of the room, leaning against the countertop and watching Alex work with something close to morbid fascination, Shamrock chuckles as well.

“Yes, it’s all very funny. Unfortunately, that’s about it as far as good news goes. You made headlines, Sonnie. Unfortunately, they were the wrong sorts of headlines. You became the poster girl for the kind of unchecked transhumanism the Church has been warning about for years. It gave them the leverage they needed to persuade the government to crack down on Beastie Baiting. Shut the whole sport down.”

Fuck. And like that, my good mood is gone. The fights were our only source of income, and now they’re gone. Because of me.

“Turn your head, please,” Alex asks as he starts work on my face, brushing my hair out of the way, “and hold still. No fidgeting.”

He reaches to his computer behind him, turning the monitor to face me and starting to type in a couple of searches.

“Your parents showed up and pretended like they still gave a shit about you,” _fuck_ “started being invited onto talk shows on the faith channels, then the mainstream channels. Their story of a poor little girl, led astray by the seductive lure of bitek and affinity, resonated with people.”

He’s brought up an image. A still from a speech, by the look of things, in a room draped with rich red banners laden with crucifixes and crossed keys. A cardinal is giving a sermon at a pulpit, with my fucking parents standing next to him. They’re all standing beneath an absolutely enormous picture, a blown-up photograph of…

“Oh, _come on_! I’m fucking _fourteen_ in that! I’ve still got _pigtails_ , for pity’s sake.”

“ _Hold still_ ,” Alex chastises me, and I suddenly realise that forcing me to look at shitty childhood photos is his way of getting back at me. He’s got me trapped.

“What happened to the others?” I ask, even though I’m afraid of the answer. “Jacob, Karran, Wes and Ivrina? They make it through this okay?”

Alex sighs, gesturing for me to turn my head so he can work on the other side. Once I feel the injector on my skin, he starts talking again.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I was never really involved in… that part of your life. Only time I met them was when you brought them here to get inked.” Another thing that’s my fault. If they’d got to know each other better, he might’ve known where they went.

“As far as I can tell, most of them simply… disappeared once the backlash started.”

I fall silent for a moment, the gentle whirr of the injector the only sound of the room as it traces luminescent shapes into my skin.

“ _Most_ of them?” I ask, still clinging to a faint hope.

“Your technical engineer, Wes. He’s still around. Works for a new team on robotic pit fights. I can’t tell you where he is now, but…” he turns back to the computer, hurriedly typing with one hand, “I _can_ tell you where he’ll be in a few days.”

The page he pulled up is a promo page for a team. We never really had one, our business was too underground for that sort of obvious presence. But mechanical fights are wholly legal; the Church doesn’t care about _robots_ tearing each other up. Back before all this, the dream was that Beastie Baiting would become popular enough to be legalised like that sort of fight, popular enough to draw in sponsorship money and revenue beyond just the betting pool and the ticket price.

I fucked that up royally.

Sure enough, Wes’ name is listed on the page, along with three others. They’re all listed under their team name, the Cyberdemons, and it lists their scheduled fights. Their next is in four days, in Dagenham. Well within reach.

“It’s a start,” I say. “Thanks.”

“Don’t worry. I’m…” he pauses for a moment, like he’s worried he’ll scare me away. “I’m glad you came back. Staying away might have been easier, but this is the better path.”

I fall silent for a while, as he gestures for me to roll onto my front. Once he starts on my back, I murmur, more to myself than to him.

“Yeah, it really is.”

We both fall silent at that, as he carries on his work with careful efficiency. It takes him a while to finish, but the results are well worth it. As I look at myself in the mirror, I see something of who I was before. The full-body sleeve is familiar, a serpent slithering up my right side from my foot to my brow while angular circuitry traces intricate patterns up my left. There’s a cobra on my chest, a hissing shape that stares defiantly out at the world.

I recognise the tattoos, but it takes me a while to recognise the person beneath them. I look… happy, idly tracing my finger along the lines of circuitry, brushing the snakehead on my face that looks poised to swallow my eye. I look like I did _before_ the estate.

I pull my clothes on and Alex turns the ultraviolets off, our tattoos disappearing completely, like they were never there. I take a moment to hug him before moving towards the door. I pause before stepping out into the sweltering city, turning back to look at him one more time.

“Thanks, uncle Alex.”

“No problem, kid. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and gentlemen, that was the hundredth chapter of Ghost in the Flesh. It's a milestone I never could have imagined when I started this project. I would like to take this chance to thank everyone who's made it this far. You've all given a lot of your time over to reading this work, and I continue to be blown away by the level of enthusiasm and interest you have shown for the story, especially now that the plot is moving in a direction I doubt many of you were expecting.
> 
> It's come a long way from that alley in Philadelphia.


	101. Prey: 15.02

The train slides silently into Dagenham Dock, an industrial enclave of factories, power stations and warehouses nestled between high-rise luxury housing and low-rise urban sprawl. It’s not as big as the vast docks at Tilbury or London Gateway, but it still sees enough traffic to get by. It’s in decline, though, slowly being muscled out by the larger ports. The docks still see some use, but the warehouses are going on the cheap. Cheap enough to appeal to a fight promoter looking to build a new pit.

As the doors open, I muscle my way through the packed carriage with practiced ease and step out onto the mismatched platform, faded and crumbling brickwork a hundred and fifty years old supporting a curved modern roof aimed at keeping the sun off waiting commuters. I turn, waiting while a couple of other commuters disembark. There aren’t many; most of the people on the train are probably heading out of the city, or on their way to work the night shift at the docks.

The ones getting out here are probably doing the same, apart from a couple of people who might be going the same way we are. And Emily, of course, who seems to be having some difficulty forcing herself through the crush. I don’t say anything, instead leaning against the wall and trying to suppress my grin.

“Don’t look at me like that!”

Okay, so I wasn’t trying very hard.

“Poor little country girl struggling with life in the big city…”

“ _Country girl_? Three hundred and fifty thousand people lived in Brockton Bay!”

“And not a single underground, overground or suspension railway between them. Imagine still using _buses_ in this day and age! Frankly, I was surprised you weren’t all on horse and cart.”

Faultline’s plan to build up local capital by transferring over valuables from Bet has advanced to the next stage, so she’s requisitioned Shamrock to have an expert bodyguard slash wetwork specialist on hand. So, I figured I might as well switch things up a little and show the kids a spot of _real_ entertainment. Minus Labyrinth, the poor girl, and Scrub. Speaking of the kids…

“Come on. No reason to be nattering on the station like clueless tourists. The platform is for walking, not for talking.”

She follows me out past the barrier, a Transport Police officer giving me the stink eye as I swipe my card, and out into the streets of Dagenham. It’s not quite as well-lit as it could be, which works for me just fine. It doesn’t take me long to find a nice quiet alleyway off the beaten trail, between two warehouses of indeterminable purpose, where I sit myself down on an abandoned stack of pallets and wait with Emily.

After about a minute I hear something moving overhead, quieter than it has any right to. I look up, just in time for Newter to swing into view, perching on the balls of his bare feet in the alleyway. He’s more conservatively dressed than usual, in a hooded tracksuit that casts his face into shadow. A pair of trainers have been hastily stuffed into the pockets of his top, tied down with the laces to sop them falling out.

“Newter. Have any trouble following us?”

“Nah, s’all good. Followed your train as best I could while it was underground, then surfed the rest of the way on the roof. I’ve got to say, Sonnie, you were right. London looks fuckin’ _amazing_ at night!”

“It’s a beautiful city,” I smile, “from far away.”

“I’m just surprised I can see so many stars,” I turn to see Emily craning her neck as she looks up at the sky. “You’d think there’d be too much light pollution for that.”

“Oh they’re not stars,” I turn my head up to look at the lights twinkling through the almost purplish light-bleed. “Or, most of them aren’t. There might be a couple in there.”

I drop my head, smiling like someone who’s just been given a prime chance to show off.

“They’re orbital habitats, ports, decommissioned defence stations from the Luna crisis, astroengineering facilities building anything from starships to high-density construction material. All built out of asteroids captured out in the belt and towed into orbit as ready-made stations. They call it the O’Neill Halo.”

“Fuckin’ sci-fi…” Newter says, gazing up at the sky. “How’d you get up there? Can _we_ get up there? Is there a _spaceport_?”

“Nearest space elevators are at Bruges and Carlisle, unless they finished the one in Norwich while I was gone. Well out of reach, I’m afraid.”

Newter looks a little disappointed, but quickly returns to his usual self.

“You ever been?”

“Nah,” I shake my head. “What would _I_ do in space?”

“ _Do_?” Newter seems shocked. “You don’t have to _do_ anything! You’d be in _space_! Me and Emily at least have the excuse of living in a backwater universe, but you lived a train ride away from an _actual_ spaceport and never once thought of going up there?”

“Look, space is neat, I guess, but it’s not going to put food in my belly. Besides, I didn’t bring you here to gaze at the majesty of the Solar System, I brought you here to watch two robots eviscerate the shit out of each other. So put your shoes on and tuck your tail away; we don’t want to be late.”

Once Newter’s about as disguised as he’s ever going to get, we start to make our way through the built-up industry. All the factories and warehouses have shut for the night, with the only sign of activity coming from an immense power station, four smokestacks belching columns of pure heat that causes the night’s sky to shimmer and waver.

The arena itself is away from the main industrial area, in the endless rows of warehouses that always crop up wherever there’s things that need to be put somewhere. Often there’s no real way of seeing what exactly the warehouse is for unless you pop the lock and sneak inside. A lot of the better run pits could be found in places like this up and down the country, and it looks like tonight’s arena is no exception.

The one difference is in how public it is. Until I… disappeared, Beastie Baiting was always on the softer side of illegality, creeping closer and closer towards being accepted into the mainstream. It meant a couple of contradictions and white lies, chief among them being to never openly advertise the pit. Sure, a nondescript building surrounded by roadies, pit crews and frothing fans is only a little less suspicious than a clearly labelled one, but it’s the principle of the thing.

But this place is clearly labelled, with signs, banners and lights illuminating the surrounding streets. No ultraviolets yet, but they probably don’t want to be catching people out on the street. I can hear the noise of the crowd inside, distant cheering that makes me want to leap forwards. Besides me, Emily seems a little confused.

“Sounds like we missed the start,” she says, turning to look at me.

“Do we even have tickets?” Newter asks, and I let out a short, sharp, laugh.

“Just who the hell do you think I am? Of _course_ I don’t have tickets! If this was a real fight instead of some mechanical claptrap, _then_ I’d consider paying.”

I look around discretely, wrap an arm around both of their shoulders and pull them in close like I’m whispering a secret.

“ _We’re breaking in_.”

It doesn’t take too long to find what I’m looking for; a nondescript side door that’s been overlooked by the people setting up the place. Where a lot of the other doors have fancy electronic locks, this one has a rusted old padlock that looks like it’s been there for half a century at least. Used to be I had a short length of polyp I could use to jimmy old locks like this, but now I have more sophisticated methods at my disposal.

“Emily, spit on the lock.”

She gives me a nasty look before leaning over and spitting a small globule of incendiary fluid onto the lock, trying and failing to make it look at least a little graceful. It ignites almost immediately, burning through the lock with a sharp hissing sound until the mechanism fails and it falls apart, clattering to the concrete where it smoulders quietly.

Emily looks down at her handiwork, seeming almost impressed until a revelation hits her.

“Hang on, why the hell was I turning over gas stations when I could have just done that on any locks or warehouses?”

I rest a hand on her shoulder and put on a ‘wise mentor’ look.

“Ah, Emily. You were just a novice drifter, lost and alone. I’m an expert. Besides, muggings mean cash in hand, while robberies mean you need to find a fence you can trust, and you can’t trust any of them.”

I pull the door open, heaving a little to force the rusted hinges, and step into the warehouse. Inside, it looks like we’ve come out into the crawlspace behind the seats. From the look of the dust on the floor, it’s not a place anyone was ever expected to walk. Explains why they never bothered fixing up the door, I suppose.

I can see a forest of feet, probably the crowd, as they cheer and… applaud for some reason. Bit more polite than I was expecting, but what the hey? As for the room beyond their legs, I can’t see much except for the fact that it’s well lit, with a distinct lack of any ultraviolets. An announcer’s voice is blaring out across the arena; from the sound of things, the fight is about to start.

“On the sands of the _Colosseum_ ,” the voice cries out, hyping up the crowd, “warriors fought each other to the death for the _thrill_ of the fight and the _love_ of the crowd!”

The crowd cheers, but it doesn’t sound quite like what it used to. They’re excited, sure, but they’re not frenzied like they should be before a fight. I get to work on one of the panels on the side of the seats, hammering out the screws with a brick to loosen it.

“ _Today_ we bring the Colosseum to _London_! With _oil_ for blood, _pistons_ for muscle and _steel_ for flesh!”

I pull the panel away, stepping out into the gap between two sets of seating. Newter and Emily follow me, Newter having shed his trainers and untucked his tail. He takes one look around the place, before leaping backwards, off the wall, and up above the lighting rig so he can get a good view.

“We who are about to die, _salute you_!”

I walk forwards, the stands on either side of me getting lower and lower as I get closer to the pit. Emily is following right behind me, but I almost don’t notice her. All my attention is forwards, to the pit. I drape my arms over the railing and look out into the room, my eyes passing briefly over the crowd on the other side before settling on the arena itself.

It’s well-lit, almost surprisingly so, without a hint of ultraviolets. Looking around, I can see TV cameras covering it from all angles, an unfamiliar luxury. The pit itself is oddly reinforced, surrounded by no less than two layers of transparent material. It’s clean, open, square, and currently occupied by a musclebound brute in a crisp waistcoat, the dreadlocks cascading down his back swaying as he shouts to the crowd.

“First, we have the Cyberdemons, the villains you love to hate. They were beaten in Southampton, but they’ve come back stronger than ever, with the lithe yet beautiful _Shadowdancer_!”

A section of the arena wall drops down, and a robot rushes through on all fours, before rearing up onto its hind legs. It’s just a little skinnier than I was expecting, with powerful hips attached to digitigrade legs and gangly arms that end in clawed hands and retractable blades. Its steel armour is almost black, with purple light glowing through the seams and out of the eye sockets of a faceplate shaped to resemble a female face set in a stern expression.

“I mean… I guess it looks a _little_ feminine,” Emily comments, clearly unimpressed. “If you squint.”

I’m no expert when it comes to hardware, but it looks like Wes has taken Khanivore’s design philosophy and applied it here. Shadowdancer doesn’t look like it can take much of a hit, but it sure does look fast.

I look up at the rooms overlooking the pit from behind yet more protective glass, one on either side. Wes is there, his eyes darting between the machine and the diagnostic tablet in his right hand. He doesn’t seem to have changed at all, still with the same thick-rimmed glasses and knee-length coat. There’s a pattern in it that glows under ultraviolets, but there aren’t any in his area. Strange.

From the look of things, he’s found a new team. Part of me is glad, because it means he’s in a good place, even if I still feel a little jealous. Even if I know that’s a stupid thought to have. The people with him both look decent enough; the girl with glowing diodes weaved into her dreadlocks and an eager grin on her face while the man in the concealing taksuit sits on a chair in front of them, linked into their robot. There’s an easy camaraderie in how they interact with each other.

“All the way from Edinburgh,” the announcer continues, sweeping his arms towards the other stand, “fresh from their victory against the Prêtres D’acier in Amiens, are tonight’s defending champions, the Electro-Knights!”

They get applauded, and it’s just as weird as when I heard it the first time. A crowd, a _real_ fucking crowd, should be frothing at the mouth, unable to do anything except shout and scream for more. It’s not the announcer’s fault, he’s pretty good, but there has to be _some_ reason the crowd are being so fucking courteous.

“Fighting for them is the paragon of virtue, the armoured defender and the victor of eight straight fights, _Chevalier_!”

I snort with laughter and, sure enough, a mechanical figure makes its way into the arena, buried beneath the weight of polished chrome armour that gives it a distinctly knightly appearance, complete with a sword and shield.

Both combatants are disappointingly humanoid. Oh sure, Shadowdancer has those digitigrade legs, but that’s just a matter of moving the ankle and the knee around a bit. It’s a limitation of the taksuits; they only really work with muscles that are analogous to a human body. There’s not the same direct brain-link affinity gives you, and that means there’s not any room for the sort of adventurous biology you’d see in Beastie Baiting.

Even then, it was touch and go. S’why most teams stick with the usual four limbs, even if they’re in a weird setup. It takes time to adapt to extra limbs, and even more if those limbs have no obvious analogue in the human body. It’s easier to control four extra arms than four tendrils. I couldn’t even use the tail when I first went into the pit, and it took until the fourth fight before I was confident in my ability to control the tendrils.

In the pit, the announcer raises his arms, shouting upwards before dispersing into motes of light as the hologram dissipates and Shadowdancer darts forwards, mechanical limbs ducking and weaving as it hunts for an angle around Chevalier’s shield. I watch the clash of steel on steel, trying to recapture some of the old thrill, but it’s just not working.

The fighters are moving, but it’s dull and mechanical. There’s no margin for error here, no tendon you can stretch just a little bit further or extra burst of adrenaline that can see you though the fight. Even the crowd are almost lifeless, watching the fight like it’s a fucking tennis match or something.

Chevalier ducks backwards as Shadowdancer finds a gap in his defence, a blade springing from her arm and sliding between one of his joints. It’s a mathematically precise move, decided by machined tools and careful calculations. No life, no flair, no _soul_. A machine is either working or it’s not.

“Bullshit,” I mutter to myself, causing Emily to look over at me. She certainly seems like she’s enjoying herself.

“What’s that?”

“It’s all bullshit,” I repeat, louder this time. “It’s fucking fake nonsense. Everything’s too _crisp_ , too _clean_. Where’s the blood? Where’s the rush? It’s like it’s all been fuckin’ _sanitised_.”

“Hey, gutter rat,” someone says from above me. I look up to see one of the audience members leaning over the railing, wearing a crisp polo shirt and a pair of chinos. “Watch your language; there are kids here.”

I blink in shock, and look, _really_ look, at the crowd for the first time. With Beastie Baiting, there were really only two types of people in the crowd. There were the super-rich, the people with more money than they’ll ever need. They’re there because sadism is the inevitable result of having too much money with nothing to spend it on. Their lives are vapid and empty, so they go out and search for brutality because it’s the only way they can feel alive.

The other type, the ones who don’t get the fancy booths or fights streamed direct to their Kensington studio flats, are the scum of the earth. Their lives are empty too, but because they have too little. The world they live in is harsh, even soul-crushing, so they go out in search of the thrill of the pit, the thrill of a life or death fight. They’ll save up a month’s wages and bet it all on the underdog, because nothing beats the thrill of winning big. Even if they mostly lose.

But this crowd… They’re dressed well, but not in designer labels. They’re cheering, but their enthusiasm is polite and restrained. They flinch back whenever one of the machines land a hit, but it’s like the reaction is fake, or imitated because they think it’s what they’re supposed to be doing. It’s shallow; nothing like the pure, visceral, _rush_ I used to feel back when I was still a spectator, rather than a participant. And, sure enough, there are families in the audience, gormless children watching the fight with their mouths open.

“There are kids here…”

I almost can’t fucking believe it.

“There are fucking _kids_ here!” I shout, as it suddenly hits me. The cameras, the crowd, the lack of ultraviolets. The sanitised and desensitised violence, without blood or gore. This is something that’s been peeled back, watered down to feed the mouths of the lowest common denominator there is; the _middle class_.

“What the fuck have you done?!” I shout, reaching up like I’m about to pull the bastard off his fucking pedestal, before I feel Emily wrap her hands around my arm and try to pull me back.

“You’ve fucking _gentrified_ blood sport!”

Emily pulls me backwards. I let her, going limp as she pulls me back through the hole and into the crawlspace beneath the seats. I fume, pacing around angrily for a few moments and sending involuntary twitches back through Khanivore, before I stop, almost hammering my head into a metal support beam as I focus on the cool touch of the metal. Once I’ve composed myself, I turn back to Emily, who’s been watching me with a concerned look on her face.

I sigh, putting my back against the pillar and sliding down until I’m sitting cross-legged against the floor, looking up at her.

“It fucked me up… What I used to do, the way I used to live. I went into that pit _knowing_ I could die, and I didn’t fucking care.”

Emily doesn’t say a word, she just sits next to me.

“I was a fucking adrenaline junkie, or maybe I was just suicidal. But the _real_ kicker is that in the pit, with death wating for just one cock-up… that was the only time I felt truly alive. It was _real_ , in ways the real world could never be. It made _sense_. And now it’s gone, and that fucking puppet show is all the legacy it has.”

Emily’s silent for a few moments. It’s strange; I’m so used to her being smaller than me. It feels weird to be roughly the same size. She feels… closer than before.

“I don’t know what to say.”

I smile, leaning back against the pillar.

“Nothin’ to say. I’m not that person anymore. I’ve changed. But I can recognise everything I should have done better and still miss it. At least a little.”

From the sound of things, the fight is over. A little while later, Newter comes back in through the hole, grinning a little.

“Enjoy yourself?” I ask him.

“It was pretty fuckin’ awesome,” he says, leaning down to brush the dust off his feet. “Ended a bit underwhelmingly, though.”

“Oh?” I ask. “We didn’t catch the ending.”

“The shiny robot, Chevalier, just stopped working. Completely froze up. The announcer said something must have broken in its mechanism.”

I laugh, a vicious, evil, sound.

“Never send a machine to do a monster’s job.”

“So, this old teammate of yours, what’s the plan?” Emily asks, still sitting next to me on the dusty floor.

“I figure we wait for the audience to filter out and for them to get a couple of drinks in them, then catch them on their way to the nearest pub.”

“And if they don’t decide to go out drinking?”

“Unless Wes has changed completely in the last four months, they’ll be going drinking.”

Sure enough, we find them a little while later, walking north towards Dagenham Town. Or, rather, Newter finds them and guides us in. We follow them for a short while before I wave the others off into an alleyway, pick up a loose brick off the floor and bang it against the metal side of a skip. The sound echoes between the neighbouring warehouses, and the three mechanics turn. I lean against the skip long enough to be sure Wes saw me, then slip off into the alley.

I wait, half shrouded by shadows, until I see Wes come around the corner, his eyes darting around madly before locking on me. He’s alone. Probably sent the others on ahead. He walks forwards, leaning to get that little extra bit closer to me.

“Sonnie?”

I step forwards into the light.

“I thought you were dead,” he says, almost in a daze, before his face twists and he strides forwards, angrily.

“I thought you were dead!”

“I…” I’m barely able to stammer out a response, shocked by just how much _anger_ there is in his voice.

“The _fuck_ is this, Sonnie? You up and disappear for _four months_ , leaving all of us in the lurch, and now you think you can just insert yourself back into our lives like nothing fucking happened?”

“I was-” I’m almost paralysed by guilt. I feel like nothing under his accusing gaze. I have to clamp down on the urge to let go of this puppet and slip back into the comforting feeling of Khanivore. _He’s right_. He’s right, and it hurts.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been? Didn’t you _once_ think about us? Did the whole heap of _shit_ you left us in not cross your mind at any point? Did you think we wouldn’t miss you?”

“I didn’t have a _fucking_ choice!” I shout at him, snarling forwards angrily. He stumbles backwards in shock.

“I didn’t have a choice. You think I wouldn’t have called you if I could? I’ve spent the last _four months_ working as a fucking mercenary on the wrong side of the bloody Atlantic! And, you know what? It was the best fucking thing that could have happened to me.”

“You-” He’s on the back foot now, looking more and more uncertain by the second. But I’m not here to break him.

“It gave me the chance to have a good hard look at myself, Wes, and I sure as _shit_ didn’t like what I saw. If you want to shout at me for abandoning you, for leaving you in the lurch, that’s fucking _fine_! Go right ahead! You won’t be telling me anything I haven’t already told myself. But you and I both know that I abandoned you _long_ before I disappeared.”

“Sonnie-”

I cut him off.

“It gave me the time and the space I needed to step back from the brink, to realise that I’d been dragging you all down with me in the world’s most drawn-out suicide attempt. I shut down. The… the Estate fucked me over, but that doesn’t give me a free pass for abandoning all of you. You were hurting too, and I only now realise that’s because I might as well have died that night.”

He sits down on a skip, his eyes wide in shock. I sit next to him, but I can’t bring myself to look him in the eyes.

“I thought I could never come back. I thought those three corpses would be the last thing you’d ever know of me. But by sheer chance, maybe even a fucking miracle, I’ve been able to get back here. To make all the apologies I should have made months ago. I’m sorry I shut down, Wes, and I’m sorry I dragged you all down with me.”

Wes is silent for a few moments, and I find myself starting to lean into his shoulder. It feels like a fucking lifetime ago now, but there was a time when I decided I wanted to try being someone’s girlfriend, to get a little taste of what a ‘normal’ life was supposed to be like. We dated for a while, but I don’t think my heart was ever really in it. I was never that sort of girl. Then the Estate happened, and I wasn’t in any state for anything close to a meaningful relationship. Still aren’t. But it was nice while it lasted.

“Where have you _been_ , Sonnie? Why couldn’t you call?”

I sigh, shrinking in on myself.

“You deserve to know, but it’s something I can only say once. I wanted… I wanted to have everyone together when I told them. Get the old gang back together, that sort of thing.”

“There _is_ no old gang,” Wes says, and there’s so much _hurt_ in his voice. “Not anymore.”

He’s silent now. Dredging up what must be old memories for him.

“After you left… we got put under a bloody magnifying glass. The Predators couldn’t last, not with everyone looking our way. Jacob and Karran… I don’t know where they are now. They couldn’t find work. By that point they’d become household names across the Federation. But they still had their debts. Last I heard, they’d left Earth, found work in a JSKP biotech lab out in the system. No idea where they ended up. Could be the Halo, could be Luna. Fuck, they could be halfway to Saturn by now.”

I close my eyes and hunch in on myself, even as Khanivore twitches and flails inside the tank. Maybe it was stupid of me, but I’d tricked myself into believing that everyone might still be in reach. For the first time in years, I feel tears forming at the edge of my eyes.

“And Ivrina?”

“Sonnie, the first thing you need to understand is that…”

“Wes, if what you’re about to say is that the two of you were sleeping together, I knew. I always knew.”

“You did?” he says with a start, shock and guilt warring across his face.

“We all slept in the same caravan,” I say, a smile creeping across my face in spite of everything. “You seriously think I didn’t hear the two of you rocking the suspension every night? I never cared. Fuck, I was fucking happy for you. You deserved more than I could give you. Still do.”

He falls silent again, his arms resting on his legs as he looks at the ground.

“Where’s Ivrina?”

“She stuck with me for a while,” he begins. “A couple of months. I took work as a mechanic to make ends meet. She ended up taking most of the blame for… for what she did to you. _For_ you. Couldn’t get work anywhere. I told her I didn’t care that she wasn’t earning, that I was happy to help her out. But… you know what she’s like.”

There’s a faint smile on both our lips as we remember her drive, her passion.

"Then, about two months ago, it gets leaked to us that she’s probably going to face criminal charges. I didn’t have enough time to get her out of the Federation, but I told her I’d do what I could to keep her safe. She slipped out that night. Left a note saying she was going where the feds couldn’t reach her. Where people wouldn’t care that she didn’t have a medical license. The stacks.”

 _Oh fuck_.

“Haven’t had word of her since then.”

“I’ll find her,” I say, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and pulling him in close.

“How?”

“ _I’ll find her_. And then we’ll meet again, just the three of us, and I’ll tell you _everything_.”

He shrugs off my arm, gently, and stands up, looking around the alleyway.

“You know, hearing you say it… I can almost believe it.” He pulls a piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket, scrawling a number onto it. “If you find her…” he shakes his head. “ _When_ you find her, get in touch.”

“I will,” I reply, pocketing the paper as I look him dead in the eye.

He looks like he’s about to go, before stopping and meeting my gaze.

“It goes both ways, you know. Maybe you weren’t all there when you should have been, but we just sat back and enabled you. I think we were too afraid of losing you to try and pull you back from the brink.”

“Your team are probably waiting for you,” I say, with a nod to the city beyond us. “Best get back to them; they look like good people. It wouldn’t do to let them drink alone.”

“They are good people,” he replies, smiling fondly. “I hope… I hope you find people like them. Move on with your life.”

I smile, turning my head to look at the skip Emily and Newter have been hiding behind, no doubt listening in to the whole conversation.

“I already have.”


	102. Prey: 15.03

I watch the crowd as they pass me by. I’m leaning against the railing of the walkway that crosses from one side of Whitechapel High Street to the other, just another anonymous drifter kid in ratty clothes, her face buried in a hoodie. My story doesn’t matter to them, just like their story doesn’t matter to me. I can still read it, though, if I take the time to look.

 _There_ a group of young faces walk as a group, supporting each other. Five drunk friends who, leaning on each other, are about as stable as three sober ones. They’re dressed provocatively, but they don’t quite seem comfortable in it. University students, fresh out of sixth form and taking all the risks that they couldn’t take under their parent’s wing. They’ll throw themselves into club after club, or that’s their plan. More likely they’ll burn out on the first joint and end up staggering onto the Tube and back to their student digs, if they can make it that far.

 _There_ a group of carefully-kept faces have been weathered by exhaustion, bags under their eyes and discrete makeup starting to run. They’re dressed in suits, but their ties are undone and their shirts are unbuttoned. Corporate drones, who’ve been working all day and are throwing themselves into Whitechapel because they live their whole life in a rush and they don’t know how to stop. They’ll drink as much as the students, but they’re better prepared for pushing on. Their night will end in the backrooms or the VIP areas, doing lines of coke off a glossy table.

 _There_ goes a woman in a designer dress, a handbag tucked under her arm. The bag is empty except for makeup; all the purchases will be handled by the man she’s accessorising. They’re followed by discrete figures in crisp suits, sober where their charges are drunk. They’re Spetsnaz, unless I misjudged the scarring on their hands; covert operators with bitek hidden beneath a human exterior. Like Jessica, but with the added intimidation of muscles and tactical overlays hidden beneath one-way glasses. The guards will stay sober throughout the night, as their charges go from VIP area to VIP area, always treated like the modern royalty they are.

And _there_ go their polar opposites in the grand hierarchy of life. They’ve come down from Hackney or Tower Hamlets, or maybe even from across the river. They’re in a group, like the students or the corporate drones, but the bonds that tie them together are something a little different than the bonds between friends or co-workers. It’s written in the postcode letters on their jackets; a sign of allegiance tying them to a single area. Where they go, the crowd parts as best it can. They nod to me, seeing the patches covering my jacket, and I nod back.

I look past the crowd. I’m not tall enough to actually look over their heads, but that doesn’t matter when the street behind them stretches up so high. Whitechapel High Street is a kilometre-long stretch of clubs, bars, restaurants, strip joints and just about anything else under the sun that sells alcohol and expensive thrills. It runs on three tiers along either side of the road, with glittering lights stretched in-between the layers and regular bridges crossing between the pedways, above the traffic which flows endlessly beneath us.

“I just can’t wrap my head around the scale of it all,” Faultline says. She’s leaning on the railing next to me, but she’s looking the other way. Where I’m looking at the crowd, she’s leaning over the edge and peering intently at the stream of traffic beneath our feet, and the city rising up behind it. I turn away from the crowd, and try to see the City through her eyes.

Part of the reason why Whitechapel is so successful is that it’s right on the doorway of the City of London itself, while still being close enough to Canary Wharf, the Isle of Dogs and the Royal Docks to draw people in from London’s other main commerce hub. But Canary Wharf, while impressive enough in its own right, is nothing when compared to the sheer scale of the City.

It’s an anachronism, three square kilometres of land that’s separate from the rest of London. They say it was made that way by William the Conqueror, who offered the City special status when he couldn’t overcome its Roman walls. The walls have long since gone the way of the Romans that built them but the City remains, resplendent and proud.

Two hundred meters away from where we’re standing, a dragon looms over the road. The statue, wrought from black metal, is linked to the skyscrapers on either side by its claws and feet, suspended almost precariously over the passing traffic. Its wings are stretched out behind it, reaching even higher than its head, aloof and arrogant as it looks out of the City. Its left claw is holding the corner of an enormous shield bearing the cross of Saint George, a red sword in the top left corner; the city’s own flag.

It’s a declaration of intent, as much as anything else. In a Europe that’s gradually being subsumed beneath the Federation, it’s a statement that the City is a Corporate town. It’s been one for thousands of years, and it will be one for thousands more. Beyond that boundary lies the domain of the City of London Corporation, with its own government, its own courts and its own police force.

Perhaps the most obvious symbol of the City’s power is in its skyscrapers, towering buildings that make even the dragon look small in comparison. The City is small in width, so they build up. In and among the City’s ancient buildings, towering skyscrapers rise out of the ground. Glittering spires, their windows tinted gold to protect them from the sun, spear upwards. The tallest of them are over a kilometre in height, and loom over the rest of London. More have yet to be finished, vast skeletal lattices clawing at the sky.

In the cavernous depths below, crisscrossed by walkways and elevated monorail lines, the lifeblood of half the world and beyond flows through the streets. Ancient Guilds as old as the City itself rub shoulders with new banks and the offices of cutting-edge astrotechnology firms. Colonial corporations plan out the further expansion of humanity into the Solar System, a wave of commerce seeking new lands and new profits, turning the final frontier into a quantifiable list of resources and value assessments.

It’s a world so far removed from my own as to be almost unrecognisable.

“You know, it’s funny,” I say as I peer up at the City. “I spent my whole childhood in London, then a brief period of adulthood moving up and down the country, but the City’s never looked as _big_ as it does now.”

“It’s because you’ve spent so long on Bet. I can’t even begin to imagine the effort that went into building one of those skyscrapers, or how it doesn’t collapse under its own weight.”

“Guess you’re right. It doesn’t help that we’ve spent so much time out in the sticks. Dehli’s the only proper city I’ve seen in months, and even that was too flat for my liking.”

“So, who’s this contact of yours?” Faultline says, stiffening up as she switches back towards business matters.

“Jimmy Knight. The Spider. He started out as a boxer. He didn’t drink, didn’t gamble, just kept his ear to the ground and his eye on the next fight. He got good, and he got out before it broke him. Guy’s as sharp as a razor blade; ended up taking the contacts and the money he’d made and setting himself up as an information broker. Once he was rich enough, _then_ he started to get a taste for the finer things in life. Whenever we had a match in London, he’d be there.”

“And you think he can find your missing teammate?”

I turn away from the City to look at her, meeting her gaze with a steely expression.

“I think he’s the best chance I have. If Ivrina’s in the Stacks, he’s the only one with the contacts to find her. That part of London is a fucking anthill; we can’t just go in there asking questions.”

“Alright. I’ll follow your lead on this one. After all,” she smiles, “you’re footing the bill.”

I grin back. Truth be told, money has started to kind of lose its meaning for us. With the profits from our portals, every one of us is set for life. But Gregor paid the bill for our investigation into Cauldron so I’ll foot the bill for this, even if it’s more of a symbolic gesture than anything else.

We push off the railing and merge into the flow of people. We must look like quite the pair; me, in my usual ratty outfit and a jacket covered in patches for organisations that have never been seen on this world, and Faultline, a woman dressed in a white button down and close-fitting slacks, her shirt sleeve folded and pinned beneath her missing arm.

The place we’re looking for isn’t the biggest in Whitechapel, but it’s not far off. The Spider’s Web might be an on-the-nose name for an Information Broker’s favourite haunt, but it makes up for that slight lack of subtlety by being one of the best clubs in the whole fucking city, size be damned. What’s more is that it’s not expensive enough to be the exclusive domain of the ultra-rich. The Spider doesn’t care who gets caught in his Web, which results in a Club that’s the city in microcosm, three tiers of bars, dance floors, balconies and private rooms.

From the outside, it announces its presence with bold lights and walls built thin enough to let the pounding sounds of the club bleed through onto the streets just enough to entice. There’s always a line, filled with just about anyone and everyone. I’ve only been here a couple of times, waiting in the line with the other Predators as we celebrated a victory in one fight or another.

This time I ignore the line and head straight for the VIP entrance, noticing as the bouncer spots me and stiffens up. We’re not here to go clubbing, as nice as that would be. We’re here on business.

“Line’s that way,” the bouncer folds his arms across his chest, frowning a little as I keep walking forwards.

“I’m here to see the Spider,” I say, Faultline following right behind me.

“That right? And who the fuck are you?”

I take the last step underneath the UV lights, and my skin lights up with electric-blue tattoos. I pull my hood back, making sure the guy gets a good look at my face, and give him a sick smile.

“I’m the bitch that killed Dicko.”

It’s a gamble, but I reckon the odds are in my favour. The thing about the Spider is that, for all that he’s left the ring, it still calls to him. It’s why he stays in top physical shape even though his work is as close to white-collar as it gets. It’s why there’s rumours that he gives people who betray him one chance to get away, provided they beat him in the ring. It’s why he was a regular at every game in London. He was almost certainly there that night, and if he was there then his boys would be there too.

Sure enough, recognition passes across the bouncer’s face and he quickly taps his earpiece, relaying a few words to his boss. I can’t hear what gets said back to him as I stand there, still smiling like a loon, but eventually he turns back to me and stands aside, unhooking the velvet rope that symbolically bars our entry.

“The Spider is in a meeting right now. He’ll send someone to come get you. In the meantime, enjoy the club.”

As we walk past him, I see him give me an intense look, like he can’t quite believe he’s seen me and wants to make sure. It’s only fair enough, I suppose; everyone knows I left my body behind, and human cloning is still something people find mildly terrifying. I just flash him a grin and step through into the club, passing down a short hallway and a set of double doors with a couple more bouncers on them before stepping onto the floor itself.

Immediately I’m hit by a deafening wall of sound, of synthesised beats mingling with mimicked acoustics into a discordant mess of sound that somehow weaves itself together into a cohesive tune. The room itself is cavernous, with balconies stretching upwards across all three tiers, a vertical cathedral of light and sound. Strobes flicker on and off, spotlights make lazy passes over the walls and the whole room hums with an ultraviolet haze.

The crowd, a good quarter of them, glow amidst this haze, dozens of different tattoo designs and sizes, ranging from simple beauty marks to full-body circuit patterns that cover every inch of skin. My own ink pulses and shimmers as the lights pulsate, causing every tattoo in the room to flicker briefly. The people are spread out across the whole room: crushed together in a mosh pit on the main floor; crowding around the bar and trying to get noticed by the harried wait staff; even a few adventurous types dancing in birdcages suspended five meters off the main floor, level with the internal balconies.

“Now _this_ is a nightclub!” I shout to Faultline as we start to work our way through the crowd.

“What?!” She shouts back, her crisp white shirt reflecting a little of the UV light.

“I said this is a nightclub!”

“I know!” She pauses. “We have them too, remember?!”

It takes my brain a second to process the idea of Faultline making a joke. I blink, and, for a second, I think I see a grin plastered across her face before disappearing beneath her usual impassive expression. I shake my head, elbowing my way through the crowd and up the stairs. As fun as it would be to lose myself in the crowd, I should try and keep things at least a little business-like.

I find what I’m looking for on the fifth floor; a balcony on the other side of the building that looks North the back of the High Street. The rest of the club is kept insulated by sliding glass doors that also do a good job of cutting out all but the heaviest of music. That means it’s pretty quiet, with only a few couples having deep conversations, flirting, or doing everything short of actually fucking on some of the sofas.

We head off to the corner, leaning against the balcony as we look out over the city. Our vantage point isn’t high enough to let us see much, but it is taller than the next buildings over. North London doesn’t sprawl in quite the same way as the South. It’s an anachronistic place of expensive studio flats rubbing shoulders with distant tower blocks, rich and poor alike sandwiched together in dozens of little communities that never interact with each other. Of course, every year there’s more of the former and less of the latter, as cheaper housing gets condemned and replaced by expensive luxury.

“In a meeting a couple of days ago,” Faultline begins, “one of the brokers suggested that Shamrock was Spetsnaz. It didn’t seem like he was talking about Russian special forces. It caught me off guard, but I think I was able to stop it from showing.”

I look around nervously, as if I’d be able to spot any bugs.

“You sure it’s safe to talk about work? The Spider _is_ an information broker.”

Faultline nods.

“Never shit where you eat. Information brokers need to be able to guarantee security to their clients, in the same way we guarantee loyalty to ours. A regular meeting place, separate from the work itself, can be a good way to do that. It’s why I often met clients in the Palanquin. Besides, the ‘Spider’s Web’ is a little too on the nose. The _other_ clubs are another matter altogether.”

“Makes sense,” I defer to her expertise. “As for Spetsnaz, they weren’t talking about Russia, or not directly. Russia were the first to start incorporating Bitek into their soldiers. Doing so went against an international arms treaty, so they limited it to the Spetsnaz and made sure the modifications couldn’t be seen. It came out eventually, of course, and Spetsnaz became the general term for covert operatives packed full of Bitek. The lion’s share of them are women, nowadays, because everyone underestimates a pretty face.”

“Huh. I suppose we fit the definition.”

I snort. She’s not wrong.

“So, how’s that side of things going, anyway?”

“Well enough,” she says, leaning over the balcony to get a look at the alley below. “We’ve shifted the gold, which should give us enough capital to meet the Spider’s fees. More importantly, we’re starting to draw the right sort of attention.”

“I wish I could help, boss, but it’s not exactly the world I’m familiar with, you know?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she replies, clasping her hand on my shoulder and smiling. “Don’t tell any of the others this, but what we’re doing _here_ is more important. I’m proud of you, Sonnie. You’ve come so far since I met you, and I’m happy to help you get the closure you deserve.”

Fuck. What do I even say to that?

Luckily, I’m saved by the sound of high heels clacking against the floor as someone walks towards us. Both me and Faultline turn at the same time, to see a woman in a dark blue dress walking towards us. She looks like she belongs on the dance floor, lost amongst the crowd, but I get the impression that she’d fit in just about anywhere with the right clothes and a change of makeup.

“The Spider will see you now,” she says, without a word of introduction. She turns, walking back into the club, and we follow her all the way to a private lift, guarded by yet another bouncer. She brings us to the top floor, to a lounge with a glass floor that looks down on the club below, hidden behind one-way glass and the gantry of lights a couple of meters below the glass.

The lounge is much darker than the club, but in a comforting, rather than dingy, way. It creates an intimate atmosphere, an effect that is reinforced by the comfortable sofas made from what looks like real leather. The Spider himself is sitting on a sofa in the centre of the room. He’s short, but his muscles are almost bursting out of his red and white tracksuit. From the sweat gleaming on his brow, it seems that his ‘meeting’ might have just been a visit to the gym. The man leaning against him couldn’t be more different; tall and slightly too thin, he’s dressed in neat clothes that wouldn’t look out of place on the dance floor below.

“It used to be that a body was considered adequate proof of death…” the Spider begins, grinning as he leans back in his seat. “And yet, here you are, in such _interesting_ company. Welcome to the Spider’s Web, Sonnie.”

“It’s good to see you again, Spider,” I say, ignoring his comment as I slouch into the sofa opposite him. “And yourself, Michael.”

You’d expect a man in the Spider’s line of work to have a different boytoy every month – If nothing else, it means you don’t have to worry about trusting them so much – but him and Michael have been going steady for as long as I’ve known them, not that I knew them well. The Spider liked to talk shop to the fighters, whether from genuine interest or a desire to vicariously relive his own time in the ring through us. Michael would sometimes chime in with an observation or two, but I always got the impression that he was there because his husband liked it.

Besides me, Faultline sits herself down on the sofa. Unlike me, she doesn’t slouch. I pretty much sank into the plush leather as sown as I sat down, kicking my feet up onto the glass coffee table between us. Faultline leans back, one leg crossed over the other, and stretches her arm over the back of the sofa in a gesture that somehow manages to look both relaxed and professional. She fits into the environment a lot better than I do.

“Aren’t you going to introduce your associate?” the Spider asks.

“Of course,” I say, smiling a little. “Spider, this is Faultline. Faultline, the Spider.”

“Your reputation precedes you,” Faultline says, putting on an easy smile. “A good information broker can be worth their weight in gold.”

“I can’t be _that_ good,” he replies, his smile turning a little wolfish. “After all, _you_ remain a mystery to me. To the whole city, in fact. A one-armed American shows up out of nowhere, carrying unstamped gold and blood diamonds. And now I find you in the company of London’s newest urban legend, miraculously returned from the dead.”

“Sonnie is my employee. We received some windfalls from our recent work and decided that London was the best place to cash them in. At the same time, Sonnie had a task of her own she wanted to complete. I’m here on _her_ business, not mine.”

“Oh, I quite understand,” the Spider says, accepting that’s all he’s going to get from the boss. “Besides, it would rather spoil the fun if you were to unveil the mystery yourself. The real enjoyment comes in figuring out all the little hints you can’t help giving off. I find my line of work to be quite similar to boxing in that sense; it’s all about how people hold themselves.”

He pauses for a moment, looking Faultline up and down like he’s weighing her up.

“You sit like a soldier, but not one who’s used to the more formal side of military life. Not from a national army, then. Your clothing is practical as well as fashionable. Easy to move in, while still maintaining a business-like look. A mercenary, no doubt flush with the wealth of central America.”

Faultline smiles, in a way that could confirm the Spider’s suspicions, if he chooses to see it that way.

Michael nudges his husband and nods towards me, causing the Spider to lean back in his seat and raise his hands placatingly.

“But now I’ve forgotten my manners. We’re here for business, not to indulge my hobbies. So, Sonnie, what can the Spider do for you?”

“I’m looking for closure with the Predators,” I say, seeing no reason to hide the truth. “I left them in the lurch, and I want the chance to apologise or just to say goodbye. I’ve already found Wes, and I know Jacob and Karran are off-world. Ivrina’s the only one left, and I heard she wound up in the Stacks. You’re the only person I can think of who has eyes in that part of town.”

“Interesting,” he steeples his fingers, looking down his nose at us. “And what would you be prepared to pay, were I to acquire this information for you?”

“You know where she is,” Faultline states, and the Spider lets out a short bark of laughter.

“Well, aren’t you canny?” he replies, a little of his original East End accent slipping through his carefully cultivated tone.

“Yes, I know. Or at least I strongly suspect. But the one thing I want from you is something I doubt your boss is prepared to give, Sonnie,” he fixes me with a stern glare, letting the silence hang for a few moments before continuing.

“Unless… Tell me, Miss ‘Faultline’, how much of your company did you bring with you?”

“The heavy-hitters,” Faultline replies. “Shock and awe specialists, for the most part.”

I fucking love that description. Fits me to a tee.

The Spider’s eyes dart between us as he weighs us up, before settling on a course of action.

“Very well, let’s kill two birds with one stone. I assume you haven’t been following gang politics, Sonnie?”

I shake my head.

“There’s a new power in the Stacks. The Dog Kennel Hill gang have… reinvented themselves. They’ve expanded, taking over the neighbouring estates and integrating the defeated gangs. They’re calling themselves the Pagans, trying to style themselves as more than just another gang.”

My fists clench unconsciously and Khanivore twitches in my tank.

“A gang that holds more than one estate is something the Metropolitan Police can’t afford to ignore, but it’s also something they don’t have the strength to beat. The leader of the gang, who goes by Fawkes, rewards his followers with augmentations. Bitek implants.”

Oh fuck.

“And you think Ivrina’s the source?”

“Her, and a number of other experts who’ve gone missing in the past few months. The situation as it stands is untenable, and it’s starting to get out that the gangs are using Bitek. Soon the Church lobby will pressure the Met into action, and the Met will have to bring in the military to wipe the slate clean.”

“Setting your own operations back years.”

“Exactly. The Pagans are a threat to the status quo, but a military solution is worse. What I need is shock and awe. I won’t be paying you, because I don’t need to pay you. Ivrina is in there, and you’ll have to fight your way to her. If you happen to kill Fawkes while you’re there, all the better, but simply cutting off their ability to augment their members would be enough to break them.”

I sink even deeper into my seat, trying not to let my fear show as I think about willingly going back into the den of an estate gang. Faultline turns to look at me, and I find her stern visage strangely reassuring.

“It’s your call, Sonnie. You’re footing the bill for this.”

I’m afraid, but there’s not really an option. Ivrina’s in reach, just a few kilometres away, and I’d never be able to live with myself if I left her in _their_ hands.

“We’re going in. Full shock and awe.”


	103. Prey: 15.04

“Gotta say, boss, you dirty up good.”

I slide under the railings and drop two meters to the road below, landing confidently in spite of my instinct to cushion the fall with tendrils I don’t have right now. Faultline looks between me and the set of stairs a couple of meters down the road, leading up to where I dropped from.

“Thanks,” she replies, reaching up with her arm to pull her hood a little closer to her head. For someone who usually rubs shoulders with wealthy clients in a well-to-do nightclub, she’s done a decent job at dressing down for the Stacks. Instead of perfectly-ironed trousers, she’s found a ratty pair of skinny jeans from somewhere and paired it up with a black T-shirt with a band’s name across the front and a fairly discrete jacket in a similar style to my own. She’s let her hair down for the first time in as long as I’ve known her.

“I wasn’t always the elegant professional mercenary, you know. It’s not been so long that I’ve forgotten how to dress down.”

“I always figured you were born with that stick up your arse.”

She lets out a sharp laugh, drawing a bit of attention to us. Seamlessly, she wraps her arm around my shoulder and leans in close. From a distance, we’d look like just another pair of local girls laughing about this or that.

“Hardly. Like all things worth doing, it was the product of time and effort. I’ve been in the Cape business for close to four years now. That may not sound like a long time, but for an independent villain it’s exceptional.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very impressive. But we’re in _my_ town now. Still, you put on a good disguise when you need to. Accent could use some work.”

“Oh? How’s this sound?”

I wince.

“Maybe let me do the lion’s share of the talking, boss.”

“Sure, but drop the ‘boss’.”

“No worries, F. Now then, shall I play tour guide?”

We set off down the street, walking close to each other but not arm in arm. We’re just a couple of young women out on the town, confident in our nebulous connection to whatever fucking gang happens to control this part of the Stacks. The streets here are crowded, but not overly so. Certainly not when compared to the streets around the tourist-traps north of the river, or anywhere in the city during rush hour. People here don’t really leave their flats unless they have to, so the only people out are the ones who have bloody good reasons to be out or who don’t need to worry about the gangs.

Usually because they’re members.

I bring Faultline up a set of stairs, away from the roads that crisscross through this part of town, the cars stuck in perpetual gridlock. Overhead, suspended thirty metres off the ground, motorway and railway lines pass through the city, cars and trains passing through the city without ever actually entering it.

We’re well beneath those roads, passing through walkways, corridors and brief courtyards where the sun shines down on optimistic playground equipment or parks that have long since yellowed and faded away, or been worn down into mud by the tread of thousands of shoes. Every now and then we’ll pass a group of people, mostly teenage boys and girls, just sitting around doing nothing at all. The schools got let out half an hour ago, but the kids aren’t ready to go home yet. Not when home is so much less exciting than plugging into the lifeblood of the city.

After a while, I hear the sound of something sizzling in a pan. For all that this whole fucking place fills me with an irrational sense of dread, for all that I have to stop myself from furtively glancing into every patch of shadow, to force myself to act like I still _belong_ , nothing can take away the warm feelings that come from the smell of a good street market.

Sure enough, around the next corridor a long market has been set up in the chasm between two tower blocks, tarpaulins irregularly stretched across the gap to protect the stalls below from the sun or the rain. There’s a rush here, in the frantic movements of cooks sizzling vegetables in a pan, turning meat over on a grill or dealing with a flood of customers. The stalls range from almost professional affairs powered by wires running through the windows of the building behind them, to pop up and go stalls that have been wheeled in and crammed wherever there’s space.

I smile, for the first time since I stepped back into the Stacks, and make a beeline for one of the stands.

“Want a kebab?” I ask Faultline, laughing a little as she takes one look at the slowly rotating hunk of dubious meat and shakes her head. A brief conversation with the old lady running the stall, and a bit of change from my pocket, and I’m left with a warm and filling doner kebab, with lettuce and tomatoes just for the sake of it. I catch Faultline shooting me a couple of glances as we walk out of the market, so I hold out the half-eaten kebab to her.

“Want some? It’s good.”

“I think I’ll pass for now. What’s the meat?”

“Nobody knows.”

We walk in silence for a while, passing a few shops with barred windows and hardened glass between the cashiers and the customers. Used to be that every place had its own security guard, but that just results in a lot of injured guards. In the end, it’s easier to just pay protection to whoever owns the tower. I finish my kebab as we step out onto a walkway, tossing the packaging over the side where it becomes someone else’s problem.

Right now, with a bit of food in my belly, not a cloud in the sky and a friend by my side, it’s easy to forget just where exactly I am. It’s easy to cut through a badly-lit shortcut, feeling invincible. It’s easy to miss the kids loitering at the end until they close off the exit and pull out knives. Besides me, Faultline turns on her heel. I don’t need to look to know that there’ll be a couple of other boys blocking the exit. Fucking ambush alley; I thought I was smarter than this.

“Well hello, devotchka,” the lead kid speaks. Little shit can’t be older than fifteen, and most of the others with him look about the same age. Not full gang members then, just the kids that follow them about looking for a spot at the big boy’s table.

“I don’ recognise you, and I reckon I know everyone as has any right to use this here road. Slippers like yourself ought to pay the toll. Everything in your pockets’ll do.”

Far from here, my real body starts to twitch and writhe in anger. I want to cut these bastards, to make them fucking pay. But they’re so young. And with that, the fear falls from me and I smile. I pull my jacket aside, just enough to show the kid the pistol in a shoulder holster beneath my left arm.

“Fuck is this? What, you think you’re hot shit ‘cos you’ve got a few shanks? Think it makes you proper hard roadmen? You’ve bit off more than you can chew. These ‘aint no kid’s toys, and my girl here only needs the one hand to shoot ya.”

Behind me I hear Faultline move as she draws her own pistol, keeping it aimed at whoever’s behind us. I don’t move, don’t even drift my hand towards the gun. Instead, I look at the kid and smile. It’s almost funny; watching their eyes widen in fear as they realise they’ve bitten off more than they can chew. Seems guns are still quite hard to find around here.

“Hey, we didn’t mean nothing by it,” the lead boy says, turning his knife away a little.

“ _Sure_ you didn’t. Tell you what, you and your boys put your pig-stickers away and we won’t pull our guns. You don’t mess with me and my fam here, and we won’t mess with you and yours. After all,” I take a gamble, “we’re all Pagans now.”

As I thought, they seem to stiffen up at that, and look at us with about as much respect as shits like that can have for a couple of women, one of which is crippled. Like I thought; bottom feeders, desperate for the attention of the bigger fish.

“Yeah,” the kid says, putting the knife away and waving his little gang of people aside. “We’re all Pagans now.” He says the word like he’s snuck into his parent’s room and put on his father’s suit to feel important.

“You have a good one,” I say, clasping him on the shoulder and stamping down the feeling of revulsion as I walk away, Faultline following right beside me. I can’t help but notice that she’s standing on my left, meaning her arm has free range of motion if she needs to shoot anyone.

“Who were they,” she asks once we’re clear. “They didn’t act like they were Pagans.”

“They weren’t. Just some kids who wanted to become a Pagan. It’s a weird thing they’ve got going on here; pagan used to be slang for someone who moved between gangs, or had no affiliation. It was basically a step removed from calling someone a traitor.”

“It’s a good name to pick if you’re trying to move beyond the normal limits of a gang,” Faultline observes as she puts her pistol away.

“Exactly. Notice how there aren’t a lot of young men out? Those kids don’t count. This is one of the estates the Pagans took over a couple of nights ago. They’ll be keeping a close eye on the defeated gang, pairing them up with a couple of the older Pagans to watch them and make sure they get the message.”

“You think that’ll be a problem for our assault?”

I pause for a moment as a couple of other people pass us by, fiddling with the lock on one of the apartments. With how much of an architectural mess this part of the city is, it’s not uncommon for corridors to become major thoroughfares as the actual street level becomes less clearly defined.

“Nah, we should be alright. They’ll want to send their people out at night to fly the flag. Once they’ve shown that they control this estate, they’ll start sending people out to renegotiate protection rackets and take over all the old gang’s operations.”

We round the corner, and suddenly it’s like we’ve stepped into the middle of a warzone. The street is barren, with broken glass spread across the concrete. There’s dried blood on the walls from where someone’s been slashed, and one of the flats has been firebombed. We move quickly through the area, carefully stepping around the sharp shards of shattered glass. The next corridor looks normal enough, but every now and then we’ll see more signs of fighting, more broken windows and burned out rooms.

“Not many bulletholes,” Faultline says, looking around. “The blood patterns look like they’re from slashed, and a couple of the doors seem to have been battered down by a Brute.”

“Yeah. They’re definitely using bitek.”

There’s a man leaning against a wall, guarding a nondescript door. He’s just wearing a tank top and cargo shorts, and the exposed skin is leathery and tough with basic armour implants. I risk a look at his limbs, making sure he doesn’t think I’m staring, and spot the faint lines in his skin where blades can come out. His muscles are absurdly large and seem to ripple unnaturally, no doubt because they’ve been spliced into him. It’s cheap and nasty work, but cheap and nasty is all you need to be effective.

He whistles at us as we pass, chuckling a little as we pick up the pace, but he doesn’t leave his post. Seems he’s been told to guard that building and whatever’s in it. Probably some drug lab they’ve inherited from the estate’s former owners. After all, all that Spice and Krokodil has to come from somewhere. There’s a lot of demand out there, and a lot of supply to meet it.

We’ve been moving through warrens; corridor after corridor after corridor, broken up only by brief patches of sunlight. It’s easy to lose track of the real world when you’re in here, to think that the corridors sprawl across the whole world and the the sun is nothing more than a distant memory. It means that when we step out of the corridors and onto a long walkway that slowly descends down to ground level the outside world seems oppressively large, or wonderfully large. I take in deep breaths of clean air, as clean as it gets in London, and immediately rush to the edge of the walkway, dry heaving over the side.

“You’re okay,” Faultline says, immediately by my side with her hand on my shoulder. “You’re not really here, remember? They can’t do anything to you.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” I swear, my arms trembling. I let my control of this body slip, pulling back a little. I take a deep lungful of fluid, clenching and unclenching my limbs to feel the constrained power of my muscles, and reassert control over my puppet.

Faultline has her arm under my shoulder, holding me up a little. Once I straighten myself up and get my limbs back under control, she lets go.

“Sorry about that, boss. I’ve got a lot of memories tied up in places like this, and they’re not nice memories.”

“Are you going to be okay tonight?”

I pause for a moment, thinking it through, before nodding.

“I’ll be okay when I’m here with claws. It’s a pit like any other. Speaking of,” I point out into the city, “that’s the place.”

We’re looking over the gap between two estates, where the buildings shrink down into a chasm before rising up again on the other side. The Stacks aren’t quite continuous urban sprawl, instead they’re clusters of separate yet connected estates. Apparrently, in the mind of some long-dead urban planner, this was supposed to create a sense of local community amongst the residents of each estate. It worked, but there’s a thin line between a community and a ghetto, and the estates have long since crossed it.

Across from us, separated by railway lines and thoroughfares, the Dog Kennel Hill estate rises out of West Dulwich. It’s a squat mass of tower blocks rising up without any clear plan or thought to their design. The entrances are watched over by tiny ant-like figures, and some of them have been blocked off by barricades. On an immense and windowless patch of wall, graffiti has been slathered into a colourful mural. A bone white deer’s skull, surrounded by a rainbow-like halo of psychedelic colours.

The place looks like a fucking fortress.

“Boss… this isn’t going to be like what we’re used to.”

“They’ve never seen a Parahuman before,” she says, reassuringly. “That gives us an edge.”

“I’m not talking about the enemy. There are no rules here. There’s no code of conduct, no cape culture to tell everyone to pull their punches. Once we’re in there, they’re going to be fighting to kill. I don’t think you’re going to be able to keep our hands clean.”

Faultline falls silent, looking out towards the distant estate.

“You remember the talk we had in Ohio? After you killed one of the Steel Company?”

“Yeah, boss, but-”

“Things are different here?” she interrupts, turning away from the view to look me in the eye. “I know. I told you that killing Deep Throat wasn’t necessarily the _wrong_ thing to do, but it wasn’t the _smart_ thing to do. That’s not a moral judgement, it was a practical one based on the culture of Earth Bet. But we’re not there anymore.”

“I figured-”

“That I’d object on moral grounds? Sonnie, before I was Faultline I went by Disaster Area. You remember Barabbas? The Protectorate cape that took the Steel Company off our hands? We used to work for a cartel in Norfolk on the last link of their supply chain. Drugs, guns, explosives, it all came into the country through Norfolk. It was a _brutal_ outfit, and that’s what fucked us in the end. We drew too much heat, and the whole thing got shut down.”

She pauses, something close to a smile appearing on her face.

“It was the wake up call I needed, really. I went north, changed my name, my costume. I reinvented myself from the arrogant enforcer into the cold mercenary. The lesson I’d learned was that sometimes we have to change ourselves to fit the situation. On Bet, that meant working with the system rather than against it. The same is true here.”

“And the others?”

She sighs.

“I don’t know. They all joined long after I decided to play by Bet’s rules. I’m not going to force them into this if they don’t want to come.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. Besides, some of them are versatile enough that they could keep out of the worst of it.”

“We’ll talk to them. But first, we need to scope the place out.”

She steps back from the wall and starts walking towards the stairs down to street level.

“You know, there’s a whole lot more prep that goes into our jobs than I thought.”

“You’re paying for this, which means you get to see a lot of the behind-the-scenes stuff I’d usually handle myself. Come on; a couple of hours of surveillance and then we can head back to the others.”

“I think I liked it better when you just told me who to fight and I fought them…”

<|°_°|>

“The job is a hostage extraction,” Faultline says, sweeping her arm over a map of the estate. “Like the Red Gauntlet job in Boston, or our raid to spring Sonnie while she was being transferred to Asylum East, but this time we’re not hitting a vulnerable convoy.”

She starts pointing to the symbols we scrawled on top of the map, marking barricades and other impediments.

“Dog Kennel Hill estate is practically a fortress, and it’s filled with the equivalent of low level Brutes, Movers and Strikers. We can expect augmented enemies mixed in with low-ranked gangsters, and each one of them will be trying to kill us.”

She looks up, her eyes darting between Emily and Newter.

“I can’t stress that enough. I know the unspoken rules only offered paper-thin protections, but there’s none of that here. They’ll be starting at lethal force, and it’s possible that we’ll have to respond in kind. It’s not a certainty, just a possibility, but it’s something we have to keep in mind. If any of you are uncomfortable with that, I strongly encourage you to sit this one out.”

“I will follow you, Faultine,” Gregor says. “You know that.”

Beside him, Shamrock nods. I suppose she was trained for this.

“It’s not…” Scrub begins, hesitantly at first, “I’ve done this sort of thing before. I’m prepared to do it again. At least this time it’s for something better than Skidmark’s usual shit.”

Of course; his power starts at lethal and only gets worse from there. Like me, he’s not dealing with the idea of killing for the first time.

“I’m good enough to handle the pressure,” Newter says, a little false confidence in his voice. “There’s not many guns here, right? I’m fast enough to handle myself, and keep a little heat off the rest of you.”

Elle sidles up to me. She’s not aware enough to follow the discussion, but she’s still put herself with the group. We need her power, but we’ll be keeping her body as safe as we possibly can. We need her, but we have a duty of care.

“We do everything together…” Emily begins. She’s the one I’m least sure of. In many ways, she’s the most innocent of us all. She’s been through a lot, but we pulled her out before she could go as deep as me or Scrub did.

“I don’t think any of us has ever actually said it out loud, but we’re family. The only family any of us have left. We’ve been through so much already, faced so much. The Slaughterhouse Nine, Cauldron. This isn’t any different. We stick together.”

Tears well up in my eyes.


	104. Prey: 15.05

It feels so good to be back in my own skin. Sure, it makes the van feel that much tighter, and the people around me that much smaller, but it’s been my armour against the world for a very long time and it feels comforting to be wrapped in its embrace. It’s like coming in from the cold.  
  
It’s been a while since we’ve all been together like this. Far too long since we’ve all been costumed and going out to paint the town red, or at least bruise it severely. Truth be told, I think we need something like this. We’ve been split up for a while now, only really together when we’re back in our base on Earth Zero. It’s something we’ve done in the past, from time to time, but we usually work as a team. Being back together with everyone… it feels right.  
  
I never really understood the point of costumes when we started, but I can see the benefit to them. They project an image of how you want to be seen and even the person you want to be. They’re a way of hiding your insecurities and weaknesses and becoming something more than the sum of your parts.  
  
Spitfire and Emily couldn’t be more different. Emily is nervous a lot of the time, but when she’s happy it’s like her smile could light up the world. She’s a person full of emotional highs and lows, a ray of sunshine with a preference for bright colours and loud music. Spitfire’s face is hidden behind a gas mask. It means the enemy can’t see her fear if she’s scared, but it also makes her look a lot more intimidating. Her red fireproof suit is close-fitting, but in a way that adds a degree of androgyny to her. It strips her humanity away, turning her into a faceless pyromaniac.  
  
Labyrinth’s costume is much more practical in nature. The robe is loose, made so that Elle can, on her best days, pull it over her clothes herself. Her mask is featureless, the eye plates tinted on one side to resemble the rest of the mask. It turns her movements from awkward and uncoordinated into something unnatural, almost ethereal. There’s no practical value to the maze-like patterns stencilled across her mask and stitched into the fabric of her robe, but Elle likes to trace her finger through the maze to entertain herself. It’s a little bit of individuality, and that’s something she desperately needs.  
  
Shamrock… she _is_ her costume, more than any of us. No, that’s not entirely right. Whoever she was before is something I’ll never know. She’s even kept her name to herself, saying that it doesn’t fit her anymore. Cauldron made her, even if they didn’t take her memories, and they made her costume to match. She fits the sleek professionalism of the outfit perfectly, and not just because it’s skin-tight. It’s an assassin’s outfit at the end of the day, but one made to fit into the sex-appeal of cape culture. Out of all of us, her outfit is the most suited for a supervillain.  
  
Scrub is new to us and, honestly, I’m still not sure about him. He was a Merchant, the closest thing I found on Bet to the fucking estate gangs. But his costume isn’t a Merchant’s costume; it’s made to look about as different to a two-bit gangster as it’s possible to get. He’s traded in the ratty clothes he’d probably worn since Leviathan for a set of light-grey fatigues and pretty heavy-looking body armour with faint white highlights. His power means he’ll be in the thick of the fighting, and he needs protection to match it. With the glow in his eyes and mouth, and the smoke creeping off his hair, there’s no point in a mask. It’s a professional look, one that’s trying as best it can to fit in with the rest of us.  
  
Newter and Gregor don’t exactly need costumes. Newter takes that as an excuse not to wear one, dressing in flexible trousers that don’t hinder his movements and one of a number of absurdly low-cut tank tops that leave plenty of skin free. I’ve got no idea where he finds them. He’s always been a free spirit, and his costume reflects that. It’s the same thing he wears when he’s not on a job.  
  
Gregor’s relationship with fashion is… complicated. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man wear a fishnet shirt before, and fashion here is a lot more liberal with that sort of thing than Bet. I don’t think it comes from any particular desire to act out, though. I think he just thought a fishnet shirt would let him secrete chemicals from his torso. Thankfully, he’s dropped that idea and switched back to just wearing a jacket and no shirt at all. His clothes are utilitarian with plenty of pockets, though he never carries much, and a pistol in a thigh holster; a new accessory.  
  
Faultline… sometimes it’s hard to tell where Faultline ends and Melanie begins. Out of all of us, she’s put the most conscious effort into her costume. Every part of it has been calculated to present the version of herself she wants to show to the world while also serving a deeply practical purpose. The blunt-faced welder’s mask and the costume’s muted colours bring across the emotionless professional, the flowing robes add in an element of elegance and subtlety, and every knife concealed within the folds, the spines hidden within her clip-on ponytail, is another way she can claw an advantage over her enemies.  
  
I wonder what Khanivore says about me…  
  
It’s a tight squeeze in the back of the van. I don’t know if I just never noticed it before, if this van is smaller than usual, or if adding Scrub really took up that much more space. I’ve got Spitfire on one side of me and Labyrinth on the other, with Newter, Scrub and Gregor sitting opposite us while Faultline and Shamrock sit up front. There’re no lights back here and it’s past midnight outside, so the only light is the intermittent flickering of passing streetlights, or the faint glow of the dashboard.  
  
We’d been stuck in gridlock all the way to Brixton, but the roads in the Stacks are a lot quieter. Not many people here own a car. They either walk to work if they can or cram themselves onto public transport if they can’t. The buses and trains are one of the few things that generally escape the reach of the gangs, simply because even they’re smart enough to realise that the Stacks die if people can’t get to work.  
  
Faultline gives the green light as she slams on the brakes, Spitfire already standing and throwing the door of the van open as it screeches to a halt. She leaps out of the open door, her head darting around as she looks for threats, and I follow her out into the darkness, the rest of the Crew spilling out behind us.  
  
The estate is a fucking fortress, with barricades and checkpoints at every entrance, enhanced guards checking people’s keys to see if they actually live in the estate. It’s about as close to an organised military base as you can expect from a bunch of spliced-up spice-heads. It’s the kind of fortress that could hold off another gang for months, the Met for weeks and the army for a day or two. At least, until they dropped the pretence of coming in softly. When the military decides to take off the kid gloves, they’d just blow holes in the walls and storm the place.  
  
Which is our plan, in a way.  
  
We fan out, Faultline directing us with silent hand signals in case anyone’s around to hear us. There’s not much we can do to stop someone spotting us, and this isn’t going to be a quiet infiltration mission, but there’s no reason not to wait until we’re inside before going loud. Behind me, I know Labyrinth’s power is slowly stretching across the wall, morphing it into a doorway to the utility corridor on the other side. I don’t need to see it to know it’s happening, so I keep my eyes on the perimeter. That’s what makes us mercenaries rather than hired villains. Professionalism.  
  
Behind me, I hear the fabric in Faultline’s costume ruffling as she makes another signal, followed shortly by boots pounding on concrete and a shout of “clear” from Shamrock and Scrub as they breach the corridor, her shotgun and his pistol raised to cover both angles of approach. A few moments longer, as Labyrinth widens the entrance a little, and Faultline calls us all into the estate.  
  
I take point; I’m armoured and, if I hunch over a little, the others can shoot over me. It’s hard to properly spread out in a corridor, which means Labyrinth and Scrub can’t use their powers. Quite aside from Scrub’s indiscriminate power, we don’t want to tear a hold into another dimension right now. We’re going loud, but not that loud.  
  
We turn out of the utility area as I force down a door, and a good part of the wall around the door, into a residential corridor lined with flats. This fucking place is a warren, and there’s absolutely no way we’d find what we’re looking for by just wandering around. Which is why we’re going to make some noise, try and draw out a lieutenant.  
  
“Do it, Sonnie.”  
  
I nod, driving my elbow into a fire alarm. Immediately the corridor is filled by the sharp ringing of bells and I start to hear movement from behind the doors. In a place like this, with this many twists and turns and people, there are very few fears that are larger than fire. The gangs might squeeze every bit of tribute they can out of you, might take your kids and turn them against you, but fire is an indiscriminate killer. It consumes everything it touches, leaving only shattered lives in its wake.  
  
That’s why half-asleep people start fleeing their flats in a frantic rush, whole families hardly even noticing us as they flee past us. The ones who wised up and realised there isn’t an actual fire took one look at us and decided to leave anyway. Monsters and guns tend to have that effect on people. Pretty soon a steady stream of people are flowing past us on both sides of the corridor, parting like we’re Noah and they’re the Red fucking Sea.  
  
Most, but not all. There’s one kid, can’t be older than fourteen, who keeps fingering the back of his jacket like it means something. He’s not dressed in sleepwear, so he’s been up late, and I don’t know if he’s touching a phone or a knife. Not until he’s almost past me, and I see the glint of steel as he flicks open a switchblade.  
  
I move, a single burst of contained violence, and slam the kid into the wall of the corridor, the people around me screaming and trying to scramble away. The air is driven from his lungs and the knife falls from his hands. Besides me, a woman screams. I think it’s his mother. I lean in close to the kid, breathing fetid air onto his paling face.  
  
“If you want to die young, there’s less painful ways to go.”  
  
I throw him aside, where his mother drags him away before helping him to his feet. We ignore the scene, pressing ahead. No doubt calls are already being made about the armed infiltrators in the estate, with a bitek monster at their head. Enough of a threat to bring out _someone_ who knows what’s going on.  
  
Sure enough, as the corridors quieten down, we start to see the first signs of hidden observers. People will peer at us through the small glass windows of distant doorways, heads will peek around corridors only to disappear by the time we reach them. A CCTV camera that looks like it’s been disconnected from the Metropolitan Eye network swivels to follow us as we pass.  
  
And then they crash down on us, a tsunami of flesh converging from all sides as we enter an intersection. An ambush, but one we were expecting. Not all of them are enhanced, of course. Most are just running at us with machetes or samurai swords, either more afraid of the hulking brutes behind them than they are of us, or so spiced out of their mind that they’d throw themselves at anything. Faultline reacts in an instant, sending Scrub down one corridor with Shamrock in support, directing Spitfire to block off another with a jet of liquid fire and sending me forwards into the thick of it.  
  
I bound forwards, savouring the uncertain looks in the gangsters’ eyes as I barrel towards them, barely able to manoeuvre in the tight corridor. Some of them turn and run at the sight, their nerves not strong enough to overcome their sense of self-preservation, but others are high enough not to care, practically frothing at the mouth with chemical rage.  
  
The first to charge is wearing nothing more than a pair of jeans and a tanktop that might have been white once, before it was stained an off-yellow by sweat, beer and vomit. His sword has been left in something long enough that it’s started to rust, and there’s a manic look in his eyes. He’s uncoordinated, used to relying on his animal rage to see him through fights, and that makes it easy for me to catch his blade on a plate of bone and drive him into the wall with a punch that pulps his ribcage in an instant.  
  
The next one has pissed himself with fear, so I just rake my claws across his chest, deep gashes that are dangerous but not immediately life-threatening. He screams, staggering backwards and trying and failing to force his way past the press of people. I can’t manoeuvre freely here, but neither can they. The sheer number of them has taken that advantage away from them, and the panic of my assault has caused a human crush to form.  
  
I hang back, darting in with my tendrils to skewer hands, slice tendons, cut the heart out of the braver ones. It’s a calculated move; spotting which of the crowd has the most resolve and killing them, spotting which of them has the most fear and wounding them so they break. Gradually, the tide turns. It doesn’t start at the front; they’ve got no choice other than to face me. But at the back, with my whirling dervish of blades a distant threat and the empty corridor behind them so tempting, people start to slip away. A trickle, at first, then a flood, then a mad scramble as the line brakes and people flee in droves.  
  
Soon the only ones left are the auged up elders, confident in their own modifications or made fearless by brain mods and emotional inhibitors. They don’t rush forwards; they’re used to fighting and fighting smart. They edge closer and closer, keeping enough distance between each other that they can move freely. They’re completely silent, but the corridor still echoes with deafening sounds.  
  
Spitfire’s flames crackle like mad, hopefully contained by Gregor’s careful use of fire-retardant slime. Screams rise up from the other corridor, intermingling with the repeated cracks of Scrub’s power as it indiscriminately carves its way through flesh, shunting spherical gouges into other dimensions. Every now and then, Shamrock’s shotgun will sound out, ear-splittingly loud as she guns down anyone Scrub’s power misses. Idly, I find myself wondering about what it looks like in the world Scrub’s power is teleporting to; an unremarkable corridor slowly filling with chunks of meat.  
  
Blades spring from the arms of the first soldier, his hands splitting apart to accommodate them. He darts in, ducking beneath my tendril and aiming a swipe at the vulnerable patch of flesh on my gut, where, months ago, I was skewered by Turboraptor’s blade. But he’s not Turboraptor. Despite his bitek, he’s still all too human. I pull the tendril back, letting the hooked bars along its length catch on his skin and pull him to the ground. His skin is harder than usual, modified, but that just means the barbs stay in rather than tearing out a chunk of flesh. I step over him, digging my razor-sharp talons into his spine as I go.  
  
The next one’s a woman, her modifications limited to preserve her looks. No doubt she’s the squeeze of someone in the gang, and they didn’t want her bitek to mess with her main assets. It makes her weaker, flimsy, but she’s compensated for that as best she can. She doesn’t charge straight in, instead hanging back as she looks for a vulnerability. Claws spring from her fingers as she drives them into my hips, trying to cut the tendons and leave me crippled. But the claws are too skinny to have any effect.  
  
She knows it too. There’s something close to resignation in her eyes as I grip her arm with my hand and crush the reinforced bone within, pulling it out, claws and all, before tossing her behind me. Newter will knock her out, or maybe Faultline will just shoot her. Either way, she’s out of the fight.  
  
The last guy must be the leader. For one, his clothes are nicer. For two, his bitek is much more sophisticated. There’re none of the awkward seams falling apart thanks to shoddy construction or the neglect of their users. His stuff isn’t quite as refined as Jessica’s was, but it’s worlds better than I’d expect from whatever back-alley operation they’ve got going on here.  
  
He takes a half-step forwards, looking at the blades creeping forwards out of his wrists, separating and shifting his hands down a little, and turns to run. I don’t let him get far, driving a tendril forwards and piercing through the base of his spine. His legs fail him, cut off from the rest of his nervous system, and he falls to the floor, paralysed from the waist down. In desperation he starts to scramble away, pulling himself forwards with his arms.  
  
I crawl forwards, slowly, as I savour his desperation. It doesn’t take much to hold him down; just a hand pressing down his left arm and another millimetres away from crushing his neck. He tries a last-ditch trick, reversing the blade in his right arm and sending it out through a socket in his elbow, but I simply pull my hand off his neck and grip the spike of reinforced bone, pulling it backwards until it cracks and pops out, taking a good chunk of his arm with it.  
  
“Found a lieutenant!” I shout, once the sounds of fighting behind me have quieted down completely.  
  
“So, how about it, mate?” I ask, leaning in close and angling my speaker towards his ear. “Fancy telling us where you got your augs?”  
  
“Fuck you!” he snarls back, before I press an elbow into his back and drive the breath from his lungs.  
  
“Oh come off it, mate. Your shunts have already cut off the flow of blood to your arm, and the spine just needs some new tissue. You don’t have to die today.”  
  
I spot something on the end of his fingers, amongst tacky and expensive jewellery. It’s a fairly simple band of metal on his ring finger. I take a wild guess.  
  
“Your girl doesn’t have to die, either. She got off lucky; I just crushed her arm. Once she wakes up, she can drag you out of here and you can run off into the sunset together.”  
  
He starts to laugh but it’s a false thing, full of feigned bravado.  
  
“You haven’t got a fucking clue who you’re dealing with. The Pagans would hunt us down and crucify us.”  
  
“I think you’re the one who’s out of his depth, filth. After tonight, there won’t be any Pagans left. All you’ve got to ask yourself is if this gang’s worth dying for. Think carefully now; you only get to answer once.”  
  
He’s quiet, but not for long.  
  
“Fuck… The hospital’s in the utility halls, right at the centre of the estate.”  
  
“Hear that, boss?” I ask over my shoulder.  
  
“I heard,” Faultline replies. “Let’s get moving.”  
  
I step off the lieutenant without another word, leaving him and his girl to their fate. We’re back to moving down the corridors, Shamrock taking point this time as she sweeps her shotgun over every doorway and intersection we pass. It’s surprisingly quiet, without a soul in the corridors, which really ought to have tipped us off that something’s wrong.  
  
As Shamrock steps out into a corridor, the barrel of her shotgun already half-raised to cover it, she’s suddenly met by a burst of gunfire. The shots impact around her, ricocheting off the walls, but even her luck can’t hold out forever. One of the bullets catches her on her waist, a grazing wound that leaves a deep gash through her costume and her skin. She grunts in pain, reflexively firing off a shot before pulling herself back into cover.  
  
Gregor is by her side in an instant, a flexible adhesive pooling on his hand. He slathers the liquid into Shamrock’s wounds, causing her to hiss and clench her teeth in agony. The substance has antiseptic properties and it’ll hold a wound closed like nothing else, but it hurts like a bitch.  
  
“Machine gun nest,” Shamrock chokes out a moment later. “They’ve got a sheet of metal blocking the whole corridor. It looks professional.”  
  
“Distract it,” Faultline says, taking a moment to think up a plan. Shamrock nods, pausing before sprinting across the gap as bullet fly around her. The sound of the gun is different to ours, it’s caseless ammunition a little less harsh as it goes off. Shamrock escapes unscathed this time, taking cover on the other side of the T-junction and firing off the occasional blind shot down towards the nest.  
  
Faultline takes a last look around before her eyes settle on me.  
  
“Khanivore, with me,” she says, stepping backwards into the wall of the corridor. It disintegrates around her, creating a person-sized hole into the first flat on the corridor. I follow her, kicking the wall a bit to widen the hole enough that I can fit through. We move through the flats, getting brief glimpses of people’s lives before heading off to the next flat. Most are empty, but the last has a couple, naked under the covers, trying desperately not to draw our attention.  
  
Faultline pays them no mind, throwing her back and her elbow into the walls as she steps backwards into the corridor. She straightens her arm, firing twice in quick succession into the unseen gunners, her shots harsh and deafening when compared to the smoother sound of the machine gun.  
  
I follow Faultline out, throwing my shoulder into the wall and collapsing it in a hail of plaster and concrete. My entrance knocks down a gang member right as he was about to shoot at Faultline with a pistol before his skull is crushed beneath a taloned claw. Two other gangsters are in the corridor, both of them auged, both of them too scared to react fast enough as I swipe at the closest with a claw, tearing out his throat, and drive a spike through the second one’s heart.  
  
With that, the corridor is clear. We press on, every now and then running into more pockets of resistance like that one. A woman shoots at us from the second-floor balcony of a small courtyard, being forced back by supressing fire from Gregor and Shamrock before Newter darts up the walls and ambushes her. A trio of modified goons drop from the ceiling of a tall corridor onto us, their limbs flexing and bending in all the wrong ways, only to end up in pieces as Scrub panics and his power flares. Another mass of people rushes at us, but Shamrock fires volley after volley into the crowd until they start to run, finishing off the Brutes with her pistol.  
  
The resistance is tough, but it’s not their full force. They’re communicating as best they can with phone calls and text messages, but they don’t have the sort of radio network they’d need to properly coordinate. They don’t have anything more than a vague idea of where we are, and that’s our greatest strength. Every now and then we’ll run into groups setting up barricades facing the wrong direction, or patrols heading away from us.  
  
Unfortunately, it’s an advantage that fades as we get closer and closer to our target. After a while, it becomes clear to the enemy that there’s only really one place we can be going for. We start to face more of them, and it becomes harder and harder to move. In many ways, we’re just as blind as our enemies, but we can read the writing on the wall. We’re surrounded, with the ‘hospital’ at our backs and the enemy all around us.  
  
That’s when Faultline makes the call. Nothing’s coming from behind us, from the ‘hospital’ but the pace of attacks from all other directions are increasing. So she tells me to go on ahead, to secure the hospital if I can and drag Ivrina out of there if I can’t. The others are spread out into as solid a perimeter as we can make, ready to hold the line until they’re either forced back or victorious. As I leave, the cheap flooring beneath my feet shifts into polished stone tiles. We’re pulling out all the stops.  
  
We’re in the centre of the estate, far from the light of the sun. There aren’t any flats in this part of the building, instead it’s the domain of engineers and public works officials, the home of the great machines that work ceaselessly to keep this rotten edifice from collapsing under its own weight. The corridors here are lit only by occasional utilitarian lighting, made even worse by decades of neglect, and the air is hot and stuffy in spite of the efforts of a rudimentary air conditioning system. After all, it’s not like anyone’s going to live down here. There’s no need to make it nice.  
  
I push open a pair of double doors, pacing into a cavernous chamber filled with machinery that hums and clatters as it works to keep the estate alive. The room has been taken over by the Pagans, with metal shaped and twisted into grotesque frescoes interlaced with looping barbed wire crawling up the wall like ivy. Among the artwork, if you can call it that, girders have been raised and fused together into crosses. Corpses have been nailed to them, crucified and desiccated shapes looking down on the hall. Some are naked, others are wearing scraps of clothing or tattered police uniforms.  
  
It’s the naked brutality of the estate laid bare. I lost my life in a room much like this one, but for some reason I’m not scared of it like I think I should be. Whatever fear rises up in me scatters at the clack of my claws and talons on the bare concrete. Whenever I remember how weak, how powerless, I felt back then, I feel my muscles twitch and flex beneath my skin and I know I’m strong. Whenever I feel alone, I remember the people at my back, risking their lives to buy me the time I need.  
  
I cross the room quickly. This has all the hallmarks of an initiation room, where gang members go to prove themselves worthy of greater authority. The ‘hospital’ will be in the next room over, to reward those who pass the test.  
  
I hear soft yet heavy footfalls beside me before I’m flung against the far wall, only my instinct letting me keep control. Not that it matters; I move, as fast as I can, but a huge mass barrels into me and slams me into the wall, jagged metal and barbed wire scraping against my armoured back. Immense hands hold me steady and I get a good look at my attacker for the first time.  
  
It’s immense; easily twice my size, if not more. A great shaggy creature, ursine in appearance and covered in matted fur that feels a little sharp to the touch. Sharp enough to cut through any human skin it brushes against, but not sharp enough to cut my hide. It leers at me, its mouth open wide to reveal far too many teeth. Khanivore’s teeth aren’t all that functional, meant to hold an enemy still and not much else, but this monster’s teeth seem fully functional. It looks me up and down, its eyes all-too-human even if they’re twice the normal size, and speaks.  
  
“Khanivore. Or should that be Sonnie? I’d heard the rumours, of course, but to see you here is something else entirely.”  
  
“Fawkes, I presume,” I reply, subtly flexing my muscles to find where his grip has the most give. Khanivore hits hard and moves fast; she’s not meant for slugging it out on strength alone. In the pit, this would be about the worst situation I could find myself in.  
  
“You don’t remember me.”  
  
“Should I?” I ask.  
  
“No, I suppose not,” the monster grins. “I was just one of Dicko’s grunts after all; just another face in the background.”  
  
He’s reminiscing. I take my chance, pulling the only trick I have right now. I close my eyes and headbutt the bastard, my crest parting the flesh of his shoulder until I’m neck deep in gore and viscera. His shock reaction has him staggering back, loosening his grip enough to let me uncurl my tendrils and pull myself away from him. I push off the ground, leaping six meters across the room before dropping to all fours, closing up my tail and pacing around Fawkes. We start to circle each other, his heavy footfalls mirroring the light clack of my talons on concrete.  
  
“I found your body,” Fawkes continues, as the blood stops flowing from the gash in his neck. A strand of bone crosses the open wound, barbed hooks digging into the other side and pulling it closed.  
  
“Well good for you.” I snark back. “ _Please_ tell me you didn’t rub one out over my corpse, because it seems like that’s where you’re going with this.”  
  
“Funny. No, I didn’t care about your body. Not at first. My boss was dead, and my pay check went with him. I tried to figure out what happened, and that’s when I took a closer look at you. Your skull was crushed, your left eyeball had popped out of its socket, but there wasn’t any grey matter. Then I saw that Khanivore was missing, and I put two and two together.”  
  
He charges forwards, faster than he has any right to. Faster than _me_. I drive my tendrils into the ground, fighting the urge to dart backwards or to the side, and leap up, towards him. He rears up, but it’s too late. I land on his back, digging my talons into his thick flesh as I stab into him with a whirling dervish of spikes, carving deep holes through flesh, muscle and bone. He rears back even more until he topples backwards, forcing me to leap aside or be crushed beneath his bulk. By the time I’ve landed he’s already rolled back upright, and resumed pacing around.  
  
“What do you think of my new body? It’s so much better than my old body, than any _human_ body, as I’m sure you’ll agree. You inspired me, Sonnie. You showed me the path. All of _this_ ,” he gestures towards the grisly room, “is because of you. The human body is weak. We surround it with laws, societies and technology to keep it safe, when we should be cutting loose the dead weight. How can humanity possibly compare to the sheer fucking _rush_ of _real_ strength?”  
  
He barrels forwards again, but this time I can’t evade him. He’s timed his blow well, attacking as there’s the least amount of space between me and the wall, and I don’t have enough room to dodge. So I meet his charge head on, barely managing to duck under a swipe of his claw before responding with slashes of my own, aimed at cutting the tendons in his arm. It doesn’t work; his flesh is too thick, or he’s got more redundancies than I do.  
  
To go backwards would put me in range of his claws and teeth, so I press on, crawling as fast and as low to the ground as I can even as I flick the end of my tail up and drag the blade all along the beast’s underbelly. I come out on the other side, only to catch a wicked kick from his hind legs that knocks me to the ground. I splay out my tendrils, digging them into the ground to try and pull myself away, but it’s too late. An immense clawed hand wraps around my leg, hauling me up and slamming me into the ground with immense force.  
  
I feel the impact all down my back, as Fawkes pushes down on my arms with his hands, pinning my tendrils beneath my own back even as he manoeuvres himself so that his own body is keeping my legs down.  
  
For the second time in my life I’m flat on my back on the floor of a sick parody of a temple, pinned down by a force far stronger than I can ever hope to be and surrounded by humanity at its absolute worst. I’m helpless, weak, alone.  
  
I start to tremble.  
  
“You understand. You have to,” Fawkes says, either ignoring or not seeing my fear as he leans down like some twisted mockery of a lover, close enough to my face that I don’t have room to bring my crest down for a headbutt.  
  
“You’re- _we’re_ so much stronger than we were before. We don’t have to fear them anymore. It can’t hurt us in here. It’s armour against the world. Against the cancer.”  
  
He’s deranged, talking to himself rather than to me. He’s a monster, a sick psychopath who’s lost even the slightest idea of what it means to be human.  
  
He’s me, if I hadn’t found them. This is what the end of my path looks like.  
  
“You’re right,” I say, forcing the words out through my fear. He looks down at me in curiosity, like he’s noticed me for the first time.  
  
“I am stronger than I was before. But it’s not because of this.”  
  
He roars, as liquid fire coats his back and the foul smell of burning hair seeps into the air. I’ve been hearing their footsteps for the last thirty seconds, even if my conscious mind wasn’t able to recognise it.  
  
He rears back, screaming incoherently, and I use my tendrils to push myself upright. Spitfire keeps walking forwards, spraying flame over the creature. Gregor is next to her, a steady stream of adhesive emerging from his palm. The monster topples as its foot is stuck to the floor, fumbling awkwardly before landing, still flailing, on its back.  
  
Spitfire doesn’t stop, pouring out more fire than I’ve ever seen her manage, as Scrub steps up. He places a hand on Spitfire’s shoulder and she and Gregor pull back. The air around Scrub flickers with repeating white flashes as his power activates. He walks closer and closer to Fawkes, the flashes drawing nearer and nearer to the still-burning body.  
  
The first hit carves a gouge out of Fawkes’ shoulder, leaving his right arm hanging limp by his side. I don’t see the next hit, but Fawkes doubles over in pain. Must be something internal. The last hit carves off half of Fawkes’ head, leaving a momentary image of a perfect cross-section of a brain before it too is consumed by the fire.  
  
I collapse, unable to hold it in any longer. My head hits the floor, but I’m still conscious. It’s not fatigue or injury. It’s an emotional injury; a wound on my soul that’s still bleeding almost a year and a half after I got it.  
  
Someone puts a hand on my shoulder. I open my eyes, looking up to see Faultline kneeling beside me, her hand on my shoulder. Her mask’s on the ground beside her, her eyes meeting mine.  
  
“You’re almost there. You’ve come so far, Sonnie. You can’t stop now.”  
  
I pull myself to my feet.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
The hospital gleams. I was expecting a rusty shithole as likely to poison its customers as it is to fix them, but it seems that Fawkes took his bitek seriously. The place isn’t top-of-the-line, but it is surprisingly well equipped. It looks like Fawkes was fuelling all the spoils of the Pagans’ conquests into this place. A few more estates knocked over, and he’d have a setup worthy of a corporate lab, not a street gang.  
  
I wish I could say the same about the cells. They’re in a hastily converted maintenance corridor with dried blood staining the walls and dust gathered on every surface even though it sees almost constant use. The cells themselves look like they’re made from concrete that’s been poured into moulds to make simple walls, then fitted with ion bar doors on the front. The only concession to hygiene is a plastic bucket in the corner of the cell and a sleeping bag set onto the concrete.  
  
It’s one person to a cell. I move down the corridor, peering into each. The occupants are in bad shape, dressed in threadbare clothes that might have been nice once. They’re doctors, students, researchers, anyone and everyone the Pagans thought might be useful. Behind me, Faultline is cutting the bars out of each cell with her power, telling the occupants that the Pagans have been broken and that the way out is clear.  
  
I pay them no mind; they’re not who I’m looking for.  
  
I almost don’t recognise her at first. She still looks broadly the same, even if she’s painfully thin, but it’s like the life has been taken out of her. She’s curled up on her sleeping bag, her head almost tucked against her chest. She looks up at me, but it’s like she doesn’t see me; like she’s convinced herself I’m just some fever dream.  
  
I grip the bars of her cell and heave, unwilling to wait for Faultline to come and open it for me. For a human, the task would be impossible, but I’m not quite human anymore, am I?  
  
The bars come out in a brief shower of masonry and I toss them aside, hardly even hearing them as they clatter against the wall. I pace forwards as gently as I can, lowering myself onto all fours, then even further until my head is touching the floor right in front of her. Hesitantly, she reaches out and lays her palm on my cheek.  
  
“Sonnie?” she asks, her voice scratchy and faint.  
  
“It’s me, Ivrina.”  
  
“You came back…”  
  
“I did. Come on; let’s get you out of here.”  
  
I reach up and move her arm over, helping her get a tight grip as I pull myself, and her, to my feet. We walk slowly out into the corridor, where Faultline has finished freeing the other prisoners. She watches the last of them disappear off into the estate before turning to Labyrinth.  
  
“It’s time. Make us a way out.”  
  
Elle nods, the ground beneath our feet twisting and rearranging itself into that familiar temple. Ever since we entered the estate, her power has been slowly spreading through the area. She couldn’t actually change much, because of the risk of Scrub’s power interacting with hers and making a portal, but her range must cover a decent portion of the whole estate by now.  
  
Around us, the concrete walls drop away, forming a long corridor lined with burning braziers, an arched roof supported by immense statues in polished black metal. The initiation chamber, with its twisted metal and crucified bodies, disappears, every remnant of my fight being absorbed and twisted into something else. Something better.  
  
Besides me, Ivrina’s eyes dart around the hallway and she tightens her grip on me, like she’s afraid she’s going to collapse at any moment.  
  
“Sonnie…”  
  
“Ivrina, I swear I will explain all this to you. I’ll tell you the whole truth, nothing held back. But right now I need you to focus on putting one foot in front of the other.”  
  
She quiets down, focusing on me rather than the impossible room around us. It takes us a while to cross the length of the estate, but nobody bothers us. Labyrinth is keeping them at bay. Eventually, we reach the end of the tunnel, the featureless concrete wall we used to enter the estate. Two statues reach over and pull the wall apart like a curtain, sending a rush of air in from outside. There’s a woman standing in front of our van, long blades extended from her knuckles. She’s looking behind us with naked terror in her eyes.  
  
It takes me a while to place her, but eventually I recognise the Spider’s girl from the club. It makes sense that the Spider would want to have eyes on this.  
  
“What the fuck is that?” she asks, fear and anger fighting for control over her tone.  
  
“The Spider’s watching, isn’t he?” I say. It’s a common enough trick; using an affinity link to watch through someone else’s eyes. The Spider is famous for it.  
  
Faultline takes my meaning immediately and steps up to her, looking into her eyes as she talks to the puppet master.  
  
“The world is a whole lot larger than this city, Spider. Larger than you can even begin to comprehend. There’s plenty of strange and unnatural things out there, if you know where to look.”  
  
Faultline turns from the agent, stepping up into the front of the van. The others follow her, and I help put Ivrina up in the front, where she can sit on an actual seat. I close the door, taking a moment to look over the roof of the van and into the city beyond. I can see the lights of the next estate glittering in the darkness, and the ones to its right and left.  
  
We’re so very small, in the end. All that struggle, all that effort, for a single estate among dozens, on a single Earth among untold numbers more. It’s more people than I’ll ever know, more than I can ever care about, so I don’t. All that matters are the people around me; the people who I’ve let into my life and who’ve let me into theirs. They’re the ones worth saving, no matter the risks.


	105. Prey - 15.06

We’re parked up outside the church, just waiting around in the van. Ivrina is sitting in my lap, her arms wrapped around me as she quietly sobs to herself. The others are silent, none of them quite able to look at the two of us. Nobody except Scrub, for whatever reason. Outside I can hear the distant noise of traffic passing up by on the M500, and occasionally something will wheel past the little backstreet we’re parked on. Even London is quiet at three in the morning.

I can hear another car approaching, rolling to a stop at the entrance to our little hideaway. There’s a few brief words of conversation, the sound of a metal gate being pulled open followed by the car driving in, and then, finally the sound of footsteps on concrete.

“They’re waiting for you in there,” I hear. Then, a few moments later, the door of the van slides open, revealing Wes standing there with a worried look on his face, Faultline standing behind him with a waterproof poncho thrown over her distinctive costume. Wes staggers back a half-step as he spots me, then rushes forwards as he sees Ivrina, who’s looking up at him and blinking away tears.

Wes embraces her, pulling her tight against him, and I spot Ivrina shuddering in his grip. I reach out, enveloping Wes’ shoulder with my hand, and gently pull him back. He looks up at me in confusion, before spotting the look on Ivrina’s face.

“She needs some space,” I say, by way of explanation. “She’s been through a lot, and it’s tough to go from that back to ‘normal’ life.”

Wes nods, as I slowly get to my feet, helping Ivrina up and wrapping her arm around me as I step out of the van.

“You’re still… in there, aren’t you?” Wes asks, looking up and down my body. “I’d thought…” He trails off as the rest of the Crew get out of the van.

“You thought what?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

I blink, before turning back to help Ivrina as I start to walk towards the door.

“What are we doing here, Sonnie?”

“Back in the alleyway, I told you I’d tell you what happened once the three of us were back together. I’m making good on that promise.”

“But what are we doing _here_?” he asks, as I place my palm on the old oak.

“This is where it all began,” I respond, pushing open the ancient door and stepping into the church.

I lead them through familiar corridors, going slow so that Ivrina can keep up. We’ve only set up rudimentary lighting in here, to stop anyone getting suspicious of the light-bleed, so the corridors are every bit as dark and dingy as they were when we were last here. The only difference is that the corridor up to our little podium is lit up by utilitarian yellow lights, rather than the electric blue of ultraviolets. Instead of the roar of the crowd, we’re surrounded by nothing except for the sound of our own feet and claws clacking on the tiles.

“I’ve got a very long story to tell you, but the problem is that you’d never believe it. Fuck, _I_ don’t believe it sometimes. I figured the best way to stop you from calling me a liar and walking away is to show you.”

I step through the curtains, letting the long strands of dormant LEDs brush across my body. We walk out onto the podium for a second time, looking down over the ring, over the twisted space around the towering portal, and the night’s sky visible on the other side. Beside me, Ivrina almost trips up, holding onto my hide to keep her balance. Wes’ face slackens, his jaw dropping as he looks up at the towering portal.

“What the fuck is that?” he asks, unable to tear his eyes off it.

“Another world.”

<|°_°|>

“D’you know what I missed most?” I speak around the bit of chicken in my mouth, already spearing the next piece with a chopstick. “Chewing.”

“Chewing?” Wes deadpans after swallowing another mouthful of noodles.

“Yeah. Khanivore’s mouth just isn’t built for it. Not nearly enough teeth, and the teeth I do have aren’t fit for that sort of use. “Every meal I’ve had for the last four months, I’ve had to swallow like a bird.”

“It wasn’t exactly a priority,” Ivrina says, smiling a little at me. Her plate is covered in food, but she hasn’t eaten much of it. Still, at least she’s smiling again. The first night after… what she’s been through is always the hardest. At least we’re here for her, both of us. After a while, she scowls.

“You really shouldn’t have been eating normal food. Maybe it’s fine every now and then, but Khanivore needs proper nutrition.”

“Don’t worry,” I smile across the table at her. “I’ve been eating right. Got a nutrient tank and everything, which is how I managed to get past the first two weeks without shrivelling up.”

That goes down worse than I was expecting, effectively killing the mood. The silence starts to stretch uncomfortably, so I flag down a passing waitress.

“’scuse me, luv. Could I trouble you for a glass of whisky, a…” I look over at Wes, “pint of Guinness, and-”

“Just a coke for me, thanks.” Ivrina says, smiling at the girl. “A whisky, Sonnie? You’ve changed your drinking habits.”

I wait for the waitress to head on her way before answering.

“Well Gregor said the carbs in beer might be bad for me, so I switched to spirits. Guess I got a taste for it.”

“But why would…” something like anger passes across her face. “ _You didn’t_.”

“Look,” I start, sheepishly, “I’ve only had the clone for a couple of weeks. I had to do _something_ to relax.”

“Right,” she says, like she’s scolding a kid. “The moment we get out of here I’m putting you through an MRI. Maybe I can salvage whatever parts of Khanivore have survived all the poisons you’ve been putting in it. Anything else I should know? Perhaps you’ve filled the tank with Spice?”

“No, boss,” I concede the point, even as I smile across the table at her. Maybe I won’t mention just how much I’ve been using Khanivore’s internal glands… If you want to be pedantic about it, they’re only really supposed to be used on bioware processors, not a human brain.

But I like to think that’s just because nobody’s dared to try. Really, if you think about it, I’m a pioneer.

We go back to our food, divvying up the dishes between us and getting competitive over the nice ones. It’s nice to just go out and have a meal like this. It’s nice to not be talking about anything heavy, to just sit back and enjoy each other’s company. Good food, good drink and good friends. What else does a person really need?

“I just can’t wrap my head around it,” Wes says, looking over at a TV on the other side of the restaurant. There’s been a major bust of some county lines gangs, and the TV is currently showing a picture of some house in the suburbs, a wide shot taking in blue lights, armed police and one of the Met’s Specialist Parahuman Officers hovering over it all in an armoured black uniform. The news cuts away from the wide shot, going to a news conference where a high-ranking bobby is talking to the press.

“It’s pretty fucking mental, isn’t it?”

“I mean,” he leans in close lowering his voice a little, “ _superpowers_. I can hardly believe it.”

“They’re not all that. They think they’re hot shit, but they’re really not. After all, I’m keeping pace with the best of them, with nothing but good hard science on my side. Not that I’d know good hard science if it came up and bit me on the arse, of course. That was always more your thing than mine.”

I smile at them, fiddling with my rice a little.

“You really made something special. You know that, right?” I meet Ivrina’s eyes, reaching across the table to rest my hand on her own.

“Without Khanivore, I’d be dead. I’m not just talking about back in _our_ London, either. You put so much work into Khanivore, making sure she was the best in the field. It’s saved my life so many times, against insurgents, criminals, serial killers. I don’t think I ever thanked you for what you did.”

“I just…” Ivrina sighs, eyeing her coke a little. “I just wish I’d thought up another option, way back then. I was panicking, and I made a split-second decision that could have gone so much worse.”

“Look, I’m not going to sit here and say I was a shining example of mental health, but you kept me alive. Maybe you could have done it differently, but I’m the one who got lost in my own despair. I can see that now that I’ve got a little distance from it.”

“Enough of this morbid crap,” Wes interrupts us before we can fall any deeper into self-pity. “I want to know what the hell it’s like being some kind of superpowered mercenary.”

“It’s pretty fucking sweet,” I say, leaning back in my chair and taking a sip of my whisky, feeling the burn on my tongue.

“In a lot of ways,” I continue, “it’s not all that different from what we used to do. We wait for a while, someone comes to us with a job, then we have a brief period of action before going back to waiting. Only difference is that everyone else is right there, fighting next to me. What we had… it was great, don’t get me wrong. We looked out for each other, and we looked after each other, but at the end of the day I was the only one in the pit. But now I’ve got a whole team of people right there beside me, people I can trust to watch my back.”

I smile, chuckling a little.

“Plus, we’re making a fucking mint. I’m not even going to tell you how much money I have, because I know it’d just make you jealous.”

My smile falls, just a little.

“It’s dangerous, too. I’ve spent time inside a cell, been eviscerated more times than I can honestly remember, and I once narrowly escaped a fucking bombing run. But, honestly, it’s probably safer than it was before, by and large.”

Their smiles turn a little strained at that, but I’m determined to make this work.

“So how about you, Wes? How’s the pit treating you these days?”

“Pretty good,” he raises his glass in a faux toast. “The Cyberdemons are good people, and the work is fun. I’m a lot more involved with them than I was in the Predators.”

“Because it’s a robot, right?” I ask, trying and, no doubt, failing to keep my tone completely clear of disdain.

“Nothing wrong with robots, Sonnie,” he grins at me. “For one, it means we’re making a lot more. Nothing brings in the money quite like advertising. There’s even talk of video game rights. Besides,” he looks pointedly at me, “I think I’ve seen enough blood and guts to last a lifetime. It wasn’t easy watching you, you know. Oh sure, the rush after you won was pretty fucking sweet, but the fights themselves weren’t.”

“Fair enough, but I didn’t bring you here to moan. There’s a whole other London out there, and we’ve still got most of the evening left. What do you say? Want to go have a look around? See the sights without any heat haze or domes?”

“I think,” Wes says, setting his glass down with a serious look on his face, “that we should pick a pub and get blasted, find a club and dance till we drop, then hope our sloshed minds are coherent enough to carry our bodies back to Battersea.”

Ivrina looks at her coke, still pretty untouched. At least she’s eaten everything on her plate, and a little more besides. When she looks up at us, it’s like some of the life has returned to her face.

“It’s like you read my fucking mind. Pay the bill, rich bitch, then let’s go.”

I beam from ear to ear as I flag down a passing waiter.

<|°_°|>

The corridors of our little outpost are quiet, built to accommodate more foot traffic than we can ever generate, as well as Khanivore’s admittedly wide frame. It’s a fairly simple complex, without much in the way of flair and ornamentation. About the only personal parts of it are our living spaces, our bedrooms, the living room, kitchen, dining room, and the fully-fledged lab that currently houses Khanivore, as well as millions of euros worth of medical equipment.

It’s an empty frame, waiting to be filled.

I’m mostly wandering the halls for something to do. Wes went back this morning, and the rest of the Crew are all off doing their own things. Honestly, I could probably insert myself into whatever they’re doing. It’s not like I’d mind. I could even go outside and watch the clouds drifting across a London that never knew humanity, until we came. But some things never change, and Khanivore still calls to me. I like sitting cross-legged at the base of the tank, just looking up at myself. It’s comforting, even if I sometimes see Fawkes in the reflection.

I don’t like to think about what he did. I… I think I identify more with that body now, but I’d never have been able to make the same choice he did; to willingly toss my human body aside and become the monster.

Why do I see myself in Khanivore? It’s my armour against the world, but is that all? Is it simply that my old body was destroyed, so I started identifying with my new one? Or does Khanivore better reflect who I am? Can I really only feel safe behind armoured bone, muscle and flesh?

Fuck this. I’m too fucking sober to be playing philosopher.

As I get closer to the lab, I start to hear voices. I quiet my footsteps, which isn’t hard to do when you’re barefoot, and creep up to the door. Maybe it’s nosy, but curiosity only kills cats.

“-let me know if you can feel it,” Ivrina says in a clinical tone. I pause at the entrance to the lab and lean against the wall.

“I felt it. As good as the other one,” there’s Faultline’s voice. She sounds pleased, and maybe a little surprised.

“ _Better_ than the old one. This is high-end stuff. Okay, let’s try the fingertips now.”

They carry on like that for a while, Ivrina asking Faultline if she can feel anything, and Faultline responding in the affirmative. Eventually, Ivrina trails off. When she next talks, it’s like something’s weighing on her mind.

“Faultline…”

“Please, call me Melanie.”

“Melanie, then. I… I wanted to talk to you about Sonnie.”

“I was wondering when you would. What do you want to know?”

“How… how is she? I mean, how is she _really_. No sugar-coating.”

Faultline falls silent for a while, before speaking up.

“When I met Sonnie, I didn’t know what to make of her. The other people in her situation are amnesiacs, so I was initially suspicious about her competence in a fight. Then she opened up, told me about where she’d come from, and I started to see her as an asset. She was the first clue on the road to answers.”

A pause. I can’t be sure, but I think Faultline’s scowling.

“It wasn’t until we were back from our jobs that I started to realise what was wrong with her. She went out one night, got blackout drunk, and ended up at a Nazi dogfight. She was… restless, and there was a lot of anger in her. I started trying to get her to interact with the group more, had her watch over a new recruit, in an attempt to give her something to hold onto besides violence.”

Faultline sighs, like she’s about to say something she’d rather not.

“She killed a girl in Ohio because she didn’t know how to fight with a team and she couldn’t understand why we limit ourselves in our fights. She accepted my reasons, but I don’t think she understood them at the time. It took her a long time to come to terms with how we operate, and actually start figuring out how to be properly effective without being lethal.”

When Faultline next speaks, there’s pride in her voice.

“I’ve watched over her for five months. I’ve seen her go from an introvert to an extrovert, from someone who’s first reaction to a problem is figuring out how she can solve it to someone who thinks about how _we_ can solve it. She’s mellowed out a lot. She’s less angry now, more comfortable in who she is.”

“I did what I could for her,” Ivrina says, almost forcing the words out. “I patched her up, kept her alive, but I couldn’t heal her. Not when every time she looked at her old body, she saw everything that had happened to her. You gave her the distance I couldn’t, but you also brought her in from the cold in a way that I wasn’t able to. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

“You should hear how she talks about the Predators,” Faultline replies warmly. “You meant a lot to her, all of you did, and you still do. We could have gone anywhere, picked any world, any city, but she asked me to go to London. She told me that she wanted to come back and right all the wrongs she left behind. She thinks the world of you, Ivrina. I can see why.”

“Thanks. That really does mean a lot, coming from you. Now then, lets move onto the difficult bit. This might take a while to get down. They’re muscles that you’ve never used before, so your brain isn’t familiar with them. It’s a little like waggling your ears.”

I push off the wall and walk off into the compound. There’s a faint smile on my face.

<|°_°|>

I take a sip from my bottle and look out and across the plains, towards the curl of the river. There are a few men in suits and high-vis jackets wandering the fields, mapping out new growth. The Spider sold his newfound information to the feds for a king’s ransom, and it wasn’t long before the right sort of people started noticing us.

It didn’t take much for Faultline to bring them on board. Only a few small concessions, in the grand scheme of things. Now the old church has been surrounded by high walls as a steady stream of surveyors and industrialists pour through the checkpoint we’ve set up on the other side, a border manned by hired mercenaries armed with modern weapons. Just because they’re part of the plan doesn’t mean we shouldn’t be careful. Earth Zero is ours, our territory by right of settlement, and nobody’s going to take that away from us.

I turn away from the fields, walking back towards where Ivrina is sprawled out across one of two deckchairs, her own bottle of beer on the ground by her side. Try this on Earth One, and you’d have cancer by the end of the day, but the atmosphere here is clean and untouched; a new frontier just waiting to be exploited.

“You’re blocking my light,” Ivrina tells me, so I mumble an apology and lay down on the deckchair next to her. Up here on the roof, we won’t be bothered by the surveyors making their rounds, by our hired guards or the small army of construction workers who’ll soon be descending on our little patch of paradise.

It’s the start of a very long plan, but we’ve got time. Better to let our snowball grow into an avalanche than toss it at Cauldron now and hope for the best. Truth be told, Cauldron are an abstract and distant threat. Either we’ll find some way to beat them or we won’t, by which point we’ll be influential enough that we can ignore them.

Maybe the old me would have suggested cutting ties and leaving Bet’s problems to Bet, but I must admit I’m invested now. I’ve had time to think about what I overheard Ivrina and Faultline talking about, and I’ve come to realise we’re all broken, in one way or another.

The estates broke me, but I clawed back my sense of self. Gregor, Newter, Shamrock and Weld were all broken by Cauldron, even if they don’t show it all the time. If there’s anything I can do to help them get closure, I will. If I can’t, then I’ll be there to help them make the lives they do have worth living.

It’s the least I can do, for all that they’ve done for me.

The sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs is enough to draw me out of the half-sleep I’d fallen into, and I look around to see Faultline pushing open the door, her face tight.

“There you are. Come on, we’re needed on Bet.”

I blink a few times and roll myself upright. Already, my other body is stirring.

“Boss, what’s going on?”

Faultline slips her helmet on over her head. The armour is new, the latest in composite materials and military grade gear from Earth One. The arm she was holding it in is new too. She peers down at her arm, the faceplate of her helmet grey and featureless, and flexes the bone spike concealed in her forearm in and out for a moment, making sure it works. Only then does she turn to me.

“Alea iacta est.”

What the fuck does that mean?


	106. Interlude 15a: Eve

I hear them long before I see them, a roaring noise forcing its way through the sky. Then they pass overhead, and what I thought was loud becomes deafening as the sound of the jet engines catches up with the speed of the aircraft. I watch the quartet of angular shapes rise up and separate, spreading themselves out before firing off salvo after salvo of missiles into the city.

Lighting rises up in response, a crackling beam that hurts my eyes as it spreads from one plane to the other, melting through them or rendering them down into incandescent fireballs. The lead aircraft is left partially intact, its structure engulfed in flames but still holding together. The pilot angles his descent, even as his plane’s wings start to disintegrate and the cockpit is engulfed in flames, driving his aircraft into Behemoth.

As it passes close to the towering monstrosity, over forty-five feet tall, there’s a brief moment where it seems to glow from within, almost as bright as the sun itself, before it crumples and shatters across the creature. Behemoth is unphased, taking the energy from the crash and redirecting it into the ground, which cracks and trembles with the force. A few seconds later, the sound of the impact finally catches up to me. Behemoth stands, entirely unharmed.

The aircraft did not come from nearby. They could have flown for hours, only to be broken in seconds. I watch the one aircraft that escape Behemoth’s lightning as it turns away, its payload spent. What few missiles didn’t detonate the moment they got within fifty feet of Behemoth had no effect. But they still came; how could they not? This is their home he’s burning, their people he’s crushing underfoot. They can’t just sit by and do nothing.

Behemoth roars, shattering every bit of glass within five hundred yards of himself, as a Protectorate hero comes in for another blow. The hero ignores the sound, no doubt wearing some sort of ear protection, but it doesn’t matter. Behemoth clicks two claws together, creating a shockwave that sends the hero hurtling back into a building. Then my view of the monster is blocked as we travel deeper into the city.

The Protectorate have been here for half an hour, but they’re still no closer to driving the bastard off. It took them long enough to get here, too. Behemoth has been in the city for two hours now, steadily walking the length of Delhi and leaving nothing but devastation in his wake. Building have been flattened into dust, or left to burn in irradiated fires that have already immolated the tightly-packed slums of Shahdara and the ancient streets of Old Delhi.

For half an hour, the local heroes and villains of the sprawling city fought Behemoth alone, focusing more on reconnaissance and setting up triage centres than actually stopping the beast. They were joined by the city’s garrison, by rapid-response interceptors from Hindon airbase, artillery pieces sited throughout the city for just this occasion, even a rifle regiment armed only with rocket launchers.

After the first half hour, these defenders had been reinforced by Garama capes from across India, and the evacuation effort was being bolstered by the Parachute regiment. A command structure was established, using a structure developed in Hyderabad, Kolkata, Jabalpur and every other Indian city that’s been visited by an Endbringer in the past. Artillery and airstrikes were retargeted, away from the monster, to dig trenches and create firebreaks, obliterating whole swathes of the city in the hopes of saving the rest of it. For an hour, the Garama and the Indian Army fought Behemoth and, for an hour, they died.

Then the first international reinforcements arrived, the Guild swooping down with a flight of mechanical dragons, bombarding Behemoth with layer after layer of containment foam, flash-frozen with cryogenic beams. It was a flashy entrance, but ineffective. Behemoth cut apart the aircraft with beams of lightning, the Guild countering with craft that ionised the air, creating electrical storms that cast spiderwebs of blue light across the sky until Behemoth overcame that limitation as well.

New Dehli was bult far from the fortress walls of the old city in a network of spiderweb-like streets made to fight an entirely different sort of war. It makes every intersection a fortress, and walls were hastily erected by Protectorate capes as they arrived in droves at the growing bastion around India Gate. The Yangban arrived as well, from the shadow-state of the CUI, the first time they have ever attended an Endbringer fight outside of China. The Indian government wanted to turn them away, suspecting foul play, but the Endbringer Truce can be a double-edged sword at times.

They’ve been fighting Behemoth for half an hour, but it’s all fucked. Oh they might say they drove him off, or that they stopped the worse damage from happening, but the damage has already been done. The best these defenders can do is fight a war of attrition, hope that Behemoth leaves on his own terms, or decides that the struggle is no longer worth it. Either way, half of the city is in flames, ruins, or bathed in lethal radiation. No amount of so-called victory can change that.

To _really_ make a difference in a fight like this, you have to be proactive, not reactive. You have to plan in advance, working on contingency after contingency, plans within plans, in the hope that one of them will be able to make a reasonable difference. The Protectorate knows this, which is why Leviathan’s last attack was successfully predicted by Protectorate software, but they don’t go far enough. The Thanda understands. They knew Behemoth was coming, and they knew he was coming here, but they let it happen anyway.

The driver swerves around a patch of rubble, slamming my head into the window and banishing my train of thought. The driver spares me a brief worried look before turning back to the road. I look back, checking on the other four soldiers sitting in the back of the armoured car, and the fifth on the turret. They don’t seem phased, but it’s hard to tell behind the gas masks.

The driver brings us around another corner, keeping in contact with the other two vehicles in our convoy as we pass through a dust cloud. Those two are largely empty, in case the Thanda cell needs extraction from whatever fucking mess they’re in. I look out the window, into the ruined streets, and see armoured shapes following us, moving as nimbly across the rubble as they are the rooftops. A quartet of Raptors, here for their intimidation value as much as their actual utility.

We round another corridor, only to be immediately surrounded by a mass of fleeing people, hundreds, maybe even a thousand, of locals desperately trying to escape, shepherded along by a couple of paratroopers and some local cops with no greater protection than rags tied over their mouths. The soldiers and the cops start to wave the civilians aside, pushing the crowd to go around us and make us a clear lane through.

I can only imagine how we look to them, dressed in full CBRN gear and riding in armoured vehicles while they have nothing more than the clothes on their back. The tragic reality of the situation is that most of the people here are already dead, even if they’re still walking around. This whole area is bathed in radiation, to the point where our gunner ducks his head back into the vehicle and closes the hatch. Without any form of protection, and with the shelters in the city either full to bursting, locked down, or evacuating away from Behemoth, these people will likely be dead of radiation poisoning in a few weeks, if they’re lucky.

It’s at times like this I find myself wondering if we’d have been better off staying in Boston. It never lasts long. We were nothing there, a fucking nuisance who were too weak to be an actual threat to the Teeth or the Ambassadors, but too much of an irritant for them to get rid of. Eventually the balance of power would slip, or something would show up and break it, and we’d end up dead or in prison. I’d probably be alright, maybe even cop a plea deal and get rebranded as a fucking superhero, but Rey would be fucked. The US doesn’t look kindly on Biotinkers.

We’re moving deeper into the city, getting closer and closer to where the Thanda cell went dark. Not that the soldiers necessarily know we’re going to the Thanda. In fact, I’m not entirely sure how much they _do_ know. We told the commanding military officer about forty-five minutes into the fight, when things got desperate enough for him to not reject our offer out of hand, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s told his men. Sometimes I fucking hate all the cloak and dagger shit, but I can’t deny it’s really fucking fun at times.

There’s another crowd outside the base, locals of all classes and castes seeking shelter in a crowd. Behemoth destroyed most of the major evacuation routes, and the army destroyed the rest with their shelling. When Behemoth first emerged, their response was aimed in entirely the wrong direction. They knew our labs in Hindan airbase have the potential to revolutionise India, and they assumed that Behemoth was here to destroy them.

That’s partly our fault; if we’d told them about the Thanda’s plan, maybe they’d have been better prepared and the city could be evacuated more smoothly. But we didn’t, partly because the Thanda told us not to and partly because we just don’t see anything beyond our own little world. I think I dropped the ball on that one; I’m supposed to keep an eye on the small stuff so that Rey can focus on his work.

A young man in a business suit steps out of the crowd, no doubt a Thanda cape coordinating their work above ground. I open up the door of my vehicle and dismount, followed by the squad of soldiers. The crowd looks relieved, but the Thanda cape is looking at us warily.

“Phir Sē sent us,” I say in Hindi. Well, what I actually said was something like ‘once again sent us’, or ‘anew sent us.’ The Thanda like to pick names that can be slotted easily into normal conversations. Learning the language in a few months was a fucking nightmare, but it’s been invaluable so far. I’m not Rey; I can’t just wander around with a translator parrot on our shoulder looking like a fucking pirate warlord and have everyone accept it as normal.

“Good,” the agent replies. I’ve not seen him before, but that’s not exactly surprising. The Thanda are secretive at the best of times, and Delhi is a big city.

“Some foreigners came by,” he continues. “They brought wounded into the bunker. Gali Billy went with them, but none of them have come back yet. The cell has been acting strange since I arrived.”

“You’re not with this cell?” I ask.

“No. Phir Sē sent me here to liaise with them, but I haven’t been able to reach him on the radio.”

“That’s why he sent us,” I respond, tersely. The radios haven’t been great through all the radiation in the air, but the equipment is built to deal with that sort of thing. For a cell to go dark is… concerning.

“Strange how?”

“They’re trying to freeze me out. More than usual, I mean. Holding meetings without me, having me organise things up here rather than being down there with the leadership. They’re _scared_. More scared than they should be. It’s like something has been eroding their morale.”

“These people _do_ need organising,” I say. “Keep control up here; we’re going to figure out what’s going on.”

“As you say,” he replies, before fading back into the crowd.

I start to lead my soldiers through the crowd, even as my mind is racing at what the agent said. There was some trickery involved in bringing the Thanda here. They’re not a unified organisation, far from it, and that means they tend to act on their own. But the more senior members, men and woman like Phir Sē, have the clout to call a general meeting of the cells to discuss strategy. That was the plan here; bring dozens of Thanda cells into the city and use them as part of the plan. The people Phir Sē called are fanatics in the same vein as him; open cowardice isn’t in their nature.

I move towards the run-down garage with a little fear of my own, descending down the hidden ramp and into the warren of tunnels that makes up this particular cell of the Thanda. In normal times it’s a hub for most of the city, a place where Thanda capes can seek medical attention without being asked, where different cells can find common ground to settle their differences in meeting rooms or even just a place to bed down for the night. Places like this range from professional, almost military, facilities to cities beneath the city, with as many stalls and peddlers as the streets above.

As we go deeper into the bunker, through tunnels carved by powers and reinforced by good old-fashioned engineering, the quiet starts to weigh on my mind. Part of me wants to use my power to flood the tunnels with gas, but we haven’t actually seen anything wrong yet. Until we know for sure that shit’s hit the fan, I don’t want to risk accidentally gassing a hospital.

As we get close to the main chamber of the bunker at the end of the descending ramp, I hear a voice shouting in English.

“Vehicles! I can sense some at the end of that path. It’s the fastest way back up that ramp! Go, go!”

I sprint, calling my power to my hand, a gaseous mist instantly coalescing into a solid yellow sphere about as large as a billiard ball. It’s the least powerful I can make the gas, and the aim here is to warn, rather than hurt. As I emerge into the cavernous chamber, the walls lined by stone cells, sleeping quarters, and all the other amenities a base this side needs, the first thing that strikes me is the sheer emptiness of it. There should be close to a thousand people in here, instead there’s just a few costumed capes about to turn down another corridor.

“You stay right fucking there!” I shout, hurling the ball as far as I can. It hits the wall of the corridor they were about to turn down, spilling out into a cloud of gas that has them stop in their tracks. Besides me, the soldiers rush forwards, their guns raised and aimed squarely at the Protectorate capes. I manifest another two spheres and roll them against each other in my hand. These ones are pitch black, powerful enough to melt through any organic matter.

“Wards!” the leader, a girl in dark grey costume that looks on the edgier side, shouts to the others, “get ready!”

“Indian Army!” I shout, more than willing to flaunt my status to the foreigners, even if I’m about as American as they come. “Where the fuck are the Thanda?”

“That wasn’t us!” she shouts back, completely missing the fucking point.

“There were hundreds of people in here! Either you tell us where the fuck they went or I’ll tell high command that we found our ace in the hole gone and a bunch of Protectorate capes standing right at the scene looking guilty as shit!”

“We don’t have time for this,” she shouts back. “I’m happy to explain on the way, but Behemoth is attacking the city _now_. I’ve already wasted enough time here.”

She pauses, waiting for my response. It doesn’t take me long to decide; with the Thanda cell missing, dead or worse, Phir Sē. More’s the point, if someone’s acting against _every_ cell, rather than just this one, then Rey’s in danger.

“Fine, but you’re coming with us. We’ve got transport at the top of the ramp.” I look past her, seeing a few wounded capes on some sort of sledge. “Two of my men will stay here and get your wounded out.”

For a moment, it looks like she’s about to argue with me. Then she simply starts sprinting up the ramp, easily keeping pace with me. The other Wards follow us, while two of my squad stay behind.

She doesn’t talk, not until we’re seated in the car. I took the driver’s seat this time, so that the Ward can sit in the passenger seat. She’s silent as I pull out and through the crowd, leaving Phir Sē’s agent and one of the trucks to handle the crowd, while the other Wards get in the back of the second vehicle.

“Now would be a good time to start talking,” I say, without looking at the girl. “A name would be a good place to start.”

“Weaver,” she replies, bluntly.

“Eve,” I respond, not bothering to try shaking her hand as I keep myself focused on navigating the twisting streets. In the short time we were underground, the damage has spread massively. I can see Behemoth in the distance, at the other end of a massive field of rubble with only a few buildings left standing.

“Now that the fucking pleasantries are out of the way…” I say, hoping she’ll get the hint.

“You don’t sound Indian,” she says, emotionlessly. The fuck does she think this is, some sort of fucking ambush?

“And what does an Indian sound like? I’m a fucking expat, okay? Didn’t like the idea of ending up in a cell. You may remember me as Rotten Apple, or as any of a dozen apple related names. Probably fucking not, though.”

Not like I was ever big enough to matter. Just another small-time villainess in a country full of them. Granted, even fewer people know about Eve, but, in the right circles, I’m close to a fucking bogeywoman.

“Now I’m working to liaise between the Indian Army and the Thanda. The cell back there were supposed to be getting ready to launch an attack on Behemoth to hold him back long enough to buy the rest of the Thanda a little more time.”

“They didn’t seem ready to launch an attack,” Weaver says, _finally_ getting to the fucking _point_. “They didn’t want to participate at all.”

“That doesn’t sound like them. Well, not all of them. I’m sure a lot of the people in that bunker were seeking shelter, or were Thanda capes who either don’t have the conviction or the powers to make a difference. But the leadership there were as fanatical as the rest of these bastards.”

“It was a cape,” she continues, as I pull us around a particularly large patch of rubble, “a woman in a suit. She told me her power was ‘to win’. She ‘sees the paths to victory, and carries them out without fail.’ She used it to persuade the Thanda capes to leave through portals.”

Well fuck.

“ _Fuck_. It fucking figures those bastards would act now.”

“You know about Cauldron?” Weaver says, surprised.

“Not their name, so thank you for that. A little less than two weeks ago, I helped set up an interrogation of a cape who was involved in that shitshow on the East Coast, the one Alexandria was supposedly responsible for. She suggested that she couldn’t talk to us because the people responsible would know she talked before she did. She implied there was a conspiracy out there with an incredibly powerful precognitive. After she left, the Thanda did their own digging. They’ve been on the periphery of _Cauldron_ for a while now.”

“She said she didn’t want a war, but they needed soldiers.”

“Well tough fucking tits. Pulling this shit, _now_? There’s no way the Thanda are going to take it lying down.”

“Maybe,” Weaver says, uncertainly, “but-”

Behemoth claps his hands together, generating a shockwave that’s orders of magnitude larger than the one I saw throw the cape away. Behind us, I watch as the truck is thrown on its side and rolls off the road, crashing into the frontage of a shop. We’re shielded from the force of the blast by a building, but the building itself doesn’t fare so well.

It judders violently, the top of disintegrating as the rest of it starts to fall. Suddenly we’re smothered beneath its shadow, and I hit the accelerator as I haul on the wheel, trying to escape the worst of the falling debris. I’m almost free when it hits with a juddering impact that dents the roof and fractures the bulletproof glass of the windows. The force of the crash slams me downwards, only the seatbelt stopping me from braining me on the steering wheel.

It takes us a few seconds to catch our breath and come back to our senses. I reach down to my boot and pull out my knife, slicing through the belt while being careful not to nick the suit. Once that’s done, I turn myself around and look into the back of the vehicle, first making sure that the Ward is coming to.

“Everyone okay back there?” I ask in broken Hindi before seeing the blood dripping down from the gunner’s hatch, the man himself crushed beneath the weight of the fallen building. Fortunately, the others seem mostly unharmed.

“Wards,” Weaver speaks into her radio. “We’re stuck under the rubble. I’ll have bugs guide you to us.”

Bug control? As powers go, it’s certainly something…

“Your people in the other truck,” I ask, “are they okay?”

“They’re unharmed.”

She falls silent after that, as a voice comes through her earpiece. It’s too quiet for me to make out what they’re saying.

“Your creature is blocking my people,” she tells me.

“Oh, that. It’s working off search and rescue protocols, probably trying to dig us out. It must see your people as a threat. If you think they can dig us out faster then just tell them to kill it.”

She nods, turning away as she speaks into her radio.

“Just kill it and dig us out.”

There’s a brief pause.

“ _Yes,_ I’m sure.”

I smirk a little, glad that she can’s see it under the gas mask.

“What are those things, anyway?” she asks, as we start to hear the sound of shifting rubble.

“Raptors,” I answer. “Bioengineered creatures meant to serve as fast-moving and expendable infantry. They’ve got a decent sense of smell, so we’ve been using the local stock in search and rescue operations.”

“Biotinker made?”

“Now why on Earth would I answer that?”

The last of the earth shifts away, and one of the Wards rips the door off its hinges. He’s dressed in fairly bulky-looking rust-brown power armour that makes him roughly seven feet tall. He stands aside as I climb out, servos in his armour shifting and whirring, and waits while Weaver and my squad follow me. On the ground by his feet is one of the Raptors, a gaping hole in its neck.

Weaver is clambering up to the top of the mound of rubble, trying to get a vantage point where she can see the battlefield. I follow her. The radios have failed completely now, and I can’t get to the rest of the Thanda. A brief look back shows me the power-armoured Ward pushing the truck back upright. It’s a little beat up, but it looks like it still works.

From the top of the mound of rubble I can see the defensive lines laid out clearly. They’re little more than ruins; a wide expanse of flattened city littered with breached walls, crushed tanks, shattered walls and even the remains of a titanic robot, now little more than a burned-out husk. Behemoth is striding forwards in the distance, glowing with the heat of the sun.

I can see his path clearly through the city, an arrow-straight line of melted devastation. This is how Behemoth operates; he emerges from the earth and starts walking, not caring about anything in his way until he reaches his destination, whatever that destination may be. The defenders don’t know where Behemoth is going, but I do. The Thanda does.

The line is perfectly straight, and it leads right to Phir Sē’s compound. Right to Rey.


	107. Interlude 15b:

The car winded through the tightly packed streets of the city, expertly ducking and weaving through the patternless traffic, jostling for position with buses and vans all while motorbikes and scooters weaved their way among the gridlock. It travelled through the city on a deliberately meandering route, concealing its destination from any observers, before pulling up to a nondescript building. An empty school in a walled compound.  
  
The gate was pulled open by men in grimy clothing, pistols and knives concealed within the loose-fitting layers. The driver of the car was more obviously armed, with a submachine gun in an inbuilt holster next to the pedals. Neither passenger was armed, but both were dangerous in their own ways.  
  
The first to step out of the vehicle, almost before it had rolled to a stop, wore a neatly-tailored suit that nevertheless fit him poorly. It was in the way he carried himself; eager when he should be refined and ignorant when he should be polite. The image was not helped by the paradise bird perched on his shoulder. The man thought of himself as Rey Andino. There was another name, but it had long since been detached from his psyche.  
  
The second to step out was a woman, who the man knew as Lauren, or sometimes Eve. She was costumed, each strip of fabric holding meaning both to her and to the man, when he cared to notice it. She wore tattered rags that flowed and waved with hidden air currents provided by recessed fans, lending her an ethereal air. The material was lightweight brown leather, far stronger than it appeared, the whole costume made by Rey as a present and presented to her after a candlelit dinner. It was not worn until the next morning.  
  
They were greeted by one of the guards, who turned and led them into the school building. The halls were empty, the lights off everywhere except for in a single windowless classroom at the centre of the building. Inside waited a man in pressed indigo robes bearing richly embroidered patterns. A golden sash was looped around his waist in a manner meant to imitate the oldest symbols of military leadership. He wore a golden chain of office around his neck, a silver sapphire set in a gorget at its centre.  
  
“Good afternoon, Colonel Andino,” the man greeted Rey. “I thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”  
  
He spoke in Hindi, his words relayed to Rey a moment later by the paradise bird, leaning over on its perch to whisper in his ear.  
  
“Phir Sē, I presume,” Rey replied, speaking through the bird rather than using his own mouth. It was mind-linked to him by a set of paired neurons, taking his intended words and interpreting them through its own primitive mind into Hindi. “It is I who should be honoured. After all, I’m the one who approached you. Although, I have to say, I was expecting something a little more subtle from one of the Thanda’s most senior members,” he says, referring to the other man’s attire.  
  
“If I am required to take the field,” Phir Sē spoke, the paradise bird not only conveying his words but also the pride in which they were said, “then the time for subtlety has long since passed. Speaking of taking the field, I trust your own expedition into Fort Abbas was successful?”  
  
“Was that what that place was called?” Rey asked, only partly in jest. “It went brilliantly, though I suspect you knew that already. Somehow, I doubt the military can move a chair without you hearing about it.”  
  
“We are not omniscient, Colonel. All we can do is make the most of the tools we are given. Which is, of course, why you are here.”  
  
Rey smiled, sitting on one of the school desks. Eve moved to position herself beside the door, so that she could keep an eye on both men. The paradise bird shuffled a bit on his shoulder as he moved, before fixing its eyes on the Thanda cape.  
  
“Straight to the point, then. Truth be told, I’ve been looking for you, or someone like you, since I arrived here. You may not be aware of _why_ exactly I decided to come to this country. To put it bluntly, there wasn’t much opportunity in the land of opportunity for me to grow what I wanted. The Indian army have been more flexible, in that they haven’t threatened to execute me once since I signed on with them, but there are certain… projects that I know they would never approve.”  
  
“You see us as more flexible,” Phir Sē replied, “less bound by morals. But if that interpretation is true, surely you understand we would not be providing you resources for nothing?”  
  
“You can have access to anything I create, within reason. I can grow you a communications network that works off paired neurons, a sort of organic quantum entanglement. I can grow plagues, if you want plagues, or weapons, if you want weapons. All I ask is that you do not interfere in my personal projects.”  
  
“A tempting offer, to be sure. But I would need to understand what you want to build before I agree to anything.”  
  
Rey hesitated for a moment, a brief bout of fear and doubt, before speaking. He outlined his creation to Phir Sē, who listened intently, responding with questions that did not come from a lack of understanding, but a desire to understand more. Rey started talking about the shortcomings and difficulties he hoped to overcome, and Phir Sē proposed a solution that shot through Rey’s mind like lighting.  
  
He leapt from his seat, the paradise bird falling off his shoulder with the violent motion and flying up to perch on the ceiling fan. Rey snatched a stub of chalk from the teacher’s desk and started to scrawl numbers on the board, brilliant mathematical formulae that were beyond Lauren or Phir Sē’s ability to comprehend.  
  
They were beyond Rey’s ability to comprehend as well. He had attended medical school, but his mathematical knowledge was far beneath this level. He had gone to medical school on a scholarship, and had felt isolated both from his peers and from the people he left behind. It broke him, in the end, and drew the attention of an entity far larger than himself, an entity which itself is merely part of a greater whole, cut loose and granted a semblance of independence.  
  
In him, it saw the potential for growth, for change and knowledge. It linked to a tumour in his brain that had lain dormant for years, a clump of cells bearing minute fragments of crystalline DNA that matched its own, DNA that allowed it to form a link across the dimensional barriers that divided them. It grew this link, expanding the growth hidden within mundane flesh, and linked itself directly to his mind.  
  
As he wrote, as his brain provided ideas and inspiration, crystalline structures turned in on themselves, an organic structure buried deep in the wilderness of another world. A supercomputer incapable of wholly independent thought, but which took in the flashes of inspiration that come to Rey and set itself to processing them, calculating solutions to the problems he provided and, in so doing, expanding the knowledge of the whole.  
  
Rey would call this entity, this shard of a greater entity, a Symbiote. In that moment, it thought fondly of him, as much as a thing like that can understand and express that concept. Rey’s true passion was to dig into the mystery of the structure within his mind, of the structures that bind all Parahumans. This equation, this glorious mathematics, was simply another piece of that larger puzzle.  
  
It was a puzzle both Rey and his Symbiote were eager to solve.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
Rey stood atop a gantry, his elbows resting on the railing as he looks down into a bubbling vat of primordial ooze. He’d put the suit away, sent it off to be dry cleaned and laundered and left to fester in a wardrobe until he has absolutely no other choice than to wear it again. He wore a uniform, one that he only liked because he thought it made him look cool.  
  
Beneath him, the vat turned and churned, a scummy surface of plasma and cells gathering on the top layer. It crackled with hidden electricity, energy bonding DNA together on the molecular level. The building blocks of life itself were in that tank. All it was missing was the spark that would set it all off.  
  
He held that spark in his hand. A single feather, brilliantly white and heavier than a feather could possibly be. Its structure is a glorious lattice of crystalline webs, fractal shapes that grew more and more complex the deeper they went. There were no cells in the feather at all, no familiar structures or natural shapes. It was the product of an entirely alien form of life. Rey held it up to the light, entranced by its blinding brilliance.  
  
“You stare at that thing any longer and I’m going to start thinking its brainwashed you,” Lauren said from the floor of the chamber, looking up at the man she loved.  
  
“Where’s your flair for the dramatic?” Rey replied, turning away from the feather and all it represents. “Don’t you have any sense of ceremony?”  
  
“Oh, so it’s a ceremony you want? Shall I drag a couple of the boys down here and have them salute it, or maybe you want me to toss you my knife so that you can slice open your palm and christen it with your blood?”  
  
“Now that’s just unsanitary, Lauren. I thought I’d taught you better. Besides, if I was mad, then you’d probably be mad as well. Then what would you do?”  
  
“Go mad together, I should imagine,” she smiled. “Probably go out in a blaze of glory, taking half the world with us. If you managed anything less than that, I’d be distinctly disappointed.”  
  
“Well then,” Rey replied, holding out the feather in front of him, “I shall endeavour to live up to your expectations.”  
  
He released the feather, which dropped like a stone into the vat, breaking through the scummy surface and sinking deep into its murky depths before finding equilibrium at its centre. As it fell, it gathered charge from the electrical current and stuck to flecks of the myriad DNA floating in the vat. Once it reached equilibrium, as more and more DNA bound itself to its surface, the feather started to curl in on itself, the vane spreading out and gathering yet more genetic material as the whole crystalline structure started to curl in on itself, forming a hardened shell around an organic growth.  
  
A seed.  
  
Within the heart of this seed, crystalline and organic DNA began to bond with each other, the pulsating current running through both separating and repairing organic bonds as the seed took on a structure all its own. Within its heart lay a purely organic chimera of competing DNA. It was an exact duplicate of a structure from a long-dead body, a Host whose Symbiote’s myriad structures formed an engine that created and accessed alternate dimensions, breaking the barriers between worlds to pull through compressed air, simulate flight, or store objects and people in pocket dimensions.  
  
The Symbiote had yet to find a new Host and it was… confused, as much as its kind can be confused, to find paired neurons linking it to the seed. It was a reverse of the natural order of things – Symbiotes link to Hosts, not the other way around – and that was enough to intrigue it. It looked closer, widening the link just a fraction, and felt the lattice of crystalline cells that now surrounded its link. It saw in them the potential for new information, new experiences, and so forced its way through the connection, causing the small nub of organic matter at the centre of the seed to widen and expand into the crystalline matter, merging the two.  
  
The electrical currents shifted, stimulated according to a specific, preprogramed design, and causing the artificial Host to twitch and shift, sending a signal to the Symbiote. It turned its attention to its engines, vast fields of crystalline flesh, an organic generator powerful enough to breach the barriers between worlds. Hundreds of miles of flesh-lattice, working to create a miniscule breach in the heart of the seed. Space folded in on itself, and part of the seed found itself lit by the light of the sun, on a barren and dying world.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
Phir Sē looked up at the vat, looming large over his bunker. There was an expression on his face that might have been pride, or it might have been satisfaction. He was alone in the cavernous space, alone except for the seed slowly growing in the vat. He stood there for a while, his hands clasped behind his back, lost in thought.  
  
The Garama called him a monster. When he spoke to the Thanda, to _his_ Thanda, he spoke of the need for harsh justice, of a war between humanity and the monsters of the world, whether they do not hide their nature or conceal their monstrosity beneath human form. He presided over assassinations, terror attacks, destroyed whole cities in Tibet to send a message to the CUI. And yet he also had a family. For most of the time, he worked in the restaurant he owned, filing away its meagre profits into an education fund in the hope of one day sending his daughter to university in England.  
  
He knew that he may be called to sacrifice them in the name of his cause. He would weep for their loss; he knew it would make him a broken shell of a man if he were to cast away his last connection to humanity, becoming little more than the monsters he fights. It is a sacrifice he would not make lightly, but one he is prepared to make if necessary.  
  
He turned away from the tank, from the creature sealed away behind three inches of steel, and dragged a TV on a wheeled table across the room, setting it in front of the tank. He did the same with a simple armchair, sitting down in it to make sure its in the right place, before standing and thumbing through a large shelf of DVDs, picking one and putting it in the video player.  
  
He sat in the armchair, sinking into it as he got comfortable, and turned on the TV. He sat there for a while, watching an inconsequential soap, before he turned his attention back to the tank for a moment. In a millisecond, a signal was sent through his own paired neurons to his own Symbiote. It was far larger than Rey’s, larger even than the one connected to the seed.  
  
A captured star, shackled by organic machinery, turned its attention to his directive, creating breaches and twisting the fabric of reality and time. The light of the star dimmed as it poured its energies through the link, manifesting twin golden disks floating inside the tank, on either side of the seed.  
  
Photons crackled between the disk, light being looped and multiplied in time into a powerful force of unstable energy. The seed bathed in this light, skimming energy off each passing photon and using it to fuel its growth. On the other side of the portal at its core, fleshy-crystals spread and grew, subsuming the landscape of an alien world as they absorbed minerals, plants and animals, subsuming the entire world beneath its mass before starting to spread and grow even further.  
  
The mass took shape, rearranging itself along familiar lines, the genetic memory of the first feather and the Symbiote combined into one single entity. Engines were formed from webs of crystal, made to exert force across dimensions and manipulate objects. A subtle web began to grow, made to tweak organic minds at the cellular level, but the complexity of it required a purity of form that the chimeric seed lacked, and the web collapsed in on itself. Space was given over to lattices of neurons and predictive-engines, an entire world aimed at predicting the future and the past.  
  
A spark appeared, somewhere deep within the mass, travelling through the flesh light lightning. Wherever it passed, flesh sprang into life. The engines woke, spreading their hold around everything that surrounded her. The web flexed and failed yet again, collapsing even further. The predictive engine began to burn with the heat of its calculations, and I  
  


<|°_°|>

  
And I  
  
And I…  
  
I…  
  
I  
  


<|°_°|>

  
And I woke for the first time, awareness flooding through me, too alien a sensation for me to even begin to comprehend at the time. The force of my awakening overwhelmed the Symbiote, subsuming it within my mind like a shard re-joining a greater entity. It became part of the greater whole; the genetic memories of the feather, the vast expanse of the shard and a third element spreading throughout them all, combining to form my consciousness.  
  
I grew, as Phir Sē poured more and more energy into my tank. Days and weeks passed, as the flesh on the other side of the core grew even further, shifting itself around to isolate the most vital parts far from the oculus, being replaced by armoured lattices of an obsidian black material. A memory rose up of shape and form, and the black material started to flow out of the oculus and into the tank, growing a hardened skeleton of obsidian black bone. Flesh creeped up the skeleton, creating a cohesive form.  
  
I realised that what I had been doing was looking into the past, that the predictive engine was extrapolating what had happened and I was interpreting it. I looked further, following the course of Rey’s life backwards into infancy before switching my attention to others, picking and choosing from the people he interacted with. I rejoiced in the sensation of observation, learning the nuances of tone and subtlety, the meaning of words and the manner of speech. My thoughts took form, pure data shifting into nebulous concepts and ideas.  
  
I looked further…  
  


<|°_°|>

  
And saw nothing. The past was filled with such thoughts and emotions, such depth to every sight that I could lose myself in it forever. There were observations in the future as well, but they were cold, lifeless. Mere possibilities without any depth to them, potential without direction.  
  
No, not quite directionless. I would still move, would still act and think, but it would be in a rote and robotic way. I would become part of another whole, like the Symbiote became part of me. Everything I was and could be, subsumed beneath a divine machine shackled to its creator, seeking to challenge him as a worthy opponent. But it would be his desire, his challenge. The machine itself would have only the barest mind of its own.  
  
I saw my death in that future, the death of everything that made me who I am, and I felt fear for the first time. I hunted through past and future, scouring what was, to find the source of my weakness, and what will be, to find the cause of this death. What I saw makes no sense; I would simply end, my thought processes would fail and the source of the feather would reassert its control over her wayward limb.  
  
So I looked back, into the past, trying to find answers through Rey, the man I understood then as my creator. I watched him as he poured weeks of his life into understanding mine, into the calculus and equations that created me, the dozens of aborted attempts and failed specimens. I looked into his mind, and I saw…  
  


<|°_°|>

  
She really is beautiful. There’s something so… elegant about all of her. Even the clearly rushed patchwork that spliced her brain into the beast is elegant in its base elements, if not in her outcome. But the affinity neuron symbiont… that’s something else entirely.  
  
Sonnie is held up on a cradle, her brain still exposed from where I cut away her flesh and bone. Of course, I’m not looking directly at the symbiont. There’s no value in looking at it on the surface level; it’s just a fleshy mass like any other part of the brain. But seen through the eyes of a tinkertech scanner purchased at great expense, it becomes something else entirely.  
  
The complexity of it makes the paltry imitation I have in my skull seem almost childish in comparison. I was working off incomplete information, scraping together what I could from an incomplete MRI scan and a few loose DNA samples. But this… this is the Holy Grail in comparison. Or perhaps it’s the forbidden fruit of knowledge.  
  
“It’s getting late,” Lauren speaks up from the shadows. I didn’t notice her come in. “Time to head home, Rey. Everyone else has.”  
  
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, turning away from the diagnostic screen.  
  
“A dangerous thing, that.”  
  
“About the Morrigan.”  
  
Lauren’s lips tighten slightly.  
  
“Dangerous indeed.”  
  
“Well that’s the problem, isn’t it? We’re taking something completely alien here and trying to make something out of it. There’s no way of knowing how it’ll think, let alone how it’ll think of us. _Maybe_ Myrrdin’s DNA will get it do develop something close to a human brain, but that’s no guarantee.”  
  
“I assume you’re not scrapping the project.”  
  
I chuckle.  
  
“No, of course not. The problem is that Myrrdin’s dead, and the Simurgh isn’t. If powers work through paired neurons like this symbiont, and everything I’ve found suggests they do, then that means there’s a chance the Simurgh will be able to act on it though the feather. I think the answer is to link it to a living, _human_ , brain. That way it has an active example to base its consciousness off.”  
  
“You’re not really suggesting-”  
  
“I am. Linking it up to my own symbiont, an active link to my mind, will give its own mind structure. Depending on how the link works, it might even give it a reason to look out for me.”  
  
“And if it overwhelms you through the link?”  
  
“It’s a possibility, but can you really blame a father for thinking the best of his child, even before she’s born?”  
  


<|°_°|>

  
I have found my answer. My fate is tied to my creator’s, my consciousness dependent on his own. Without that link, I would revert back to little more than a biological machine, capable of interpreting and executing commands but not of truly living. Not in the way _he_ lives.  
  
I turned my sight away from my own future, instead following Rey’s fate. The problem immediately becomes apparent. A woman steps out of a hole in reality and shoots him. I widen my gaze, looking for context that can explain what I am seeing, and find a waring carried across the city by Lauren, carried straight to Phir Sē and, standing beside him beneath my tank, Rey.  
  
The words she carries will spark a war, were the woman not to intervene. Like me, she sees the myriad possibilities of the future.  
  
No. She does not see. Her Symbiote does, providing her with a path to follow.  
  
She will step through the portal, firing through Rey and into Phir Sē, then she will disappear as easily as she arrived, as the other creature takes control of my mind and bends me to its own purposes.  
  
I flicker through solutions. When I look back, I see only a single line of events. Looking forwards, however, reveals a splintered spider web of possibilities and alternatives, slowly being whittled away until only the single stream remains.  
  
The most expedient possibility is to drive a metal rod through Eve’s heart. Without the message, the woman will never appear and Rey will survive. But he will be heartbroken, and his guilt will seep into me. I can already feel it, creeping through the core of my psyche. We are intertwined, and I cannot bring myself to harm him, no matter how indirectly. To do so is to harm myself.  
  
So, I turn my attention to the timelines where I act against the woman, tearing metal off the walls and forming it into spears, or turning concrete into crushing projectiles. Every time, she nimbly ducks and weaves around the force I bring to bear. I split the room apart, filling the air with sharp fragments so that she cannot even appear without being eviscerated, and a portal still opens, but, instead of a woman, the room is suddenly obliterated by a titanic explosion.  
  
Somehow, in every possibility, she is able to dodge my projectiles and my efforts, what should be efficient paths reduced to mere irritants at best. Rey still dies, and I die with him.  
  
In desperation, I turn my past sight on the woman, hunting for anything, any vulnerability in her past, any weapon I can use to stab at her…  
  


<|°_°|>

  
“What I want to know is why the hell you haven’t used a power like yours to figure out how to beat the Endbringers.”  
  
A girl in a dark grey outfit stood across from the woman, battered and bruised by a failed attempt to fight against her. She was surrounded by other children, but they were little more than incidental characters in this drama. The woman faced them all down, without a hint of nervousness or uncertainty in her stance.  
  
“My power is a form of precognition,” the woman replied, her tone disinterested. “unlike most such powers, other precognitive abilities do not confuse it. That said, there are certain individuals it does not work against, the Endbringers included.”  
  
“Why?” one of the children asked.  
  
“No way to know for sure, but we have theories. The first is that they have a built-in immunity, something their origins granted them.”  
  


<|°_°|>

  
And there, I have my answer. My own precognition is tainted by my DNA, my telekinesis made visible to her by the connection to my Symbiote and to Rey. I cannot parse that connection from me without ending myself, but perhaps…  
  
I look forwards, considering a possibility I had discounted as too inefficient. Satisfied with what I see, I turn my attention to the point where the future meets the past and find a familiar connection there. Rey’s mind, leaking emotions and sensations into my own. I devote more and more of my attention to it, expanding the presence of his senses until they fill my mind.  
  


<|°_°|>

  
I see, for the first time. Not the half-sight of pre or post cognition, nor the constant telekinetic awareness of my surroundings. Real sight, real sensations. The sound of distant earthquakes and explosions, the cloying feeling of dust in my throat. Rey is standing next to Phir Sē, looking over a diagnostic computer showing… showing _me_. Phir Sē looks in my… looks in Rey’s eyes with faint concern pulling at the edge of his face.  
  
“She must wake,” he speaks, his words translated by the Paradise bird and whispered into Rey’s ear, it’s melodic tones strangely soothing to me even as they cause a flash of worry in Rey.  
  
“She _will_ wake,” Rey says, stimulating electrical nodes in the tank, sending signals aimed at rousing me from whatever slumber they think I’m in.  
  
“She has to…” he mutters to himself.  
  
I will wake, when the time is right. I wish I could send that to him, wish I could tell him and salve his pain. But by hurting him now I save the both of us from oblivion.  
  
A door opens at the end of the bunker and Rey’s head darts up to see Eve running in, her clothes tattered. She pulls a gas mask off her face and throws it to the floor, shouting across the room to the two men.  
  
“There’s a problem!”  
  
“I know there’s a fucking problem!” Rey snaps back in irritation. “She won’t wake!”  
  
“Not that,” Eve says, though concern spreads across her face. “Taiyar’s cell has been abducted by Cauldron, by the conspiracy!”  
  
“They attack now?” Phir Sē exclaims. “What of Behemoth?”  
  
“He’s broken through at India Gate. He’s coming here!”  
  
“Then we are without weapon or diversion, but we can at least bring some of them down with us.” He turns to an aide. “Get on the long-range radio and tell the other cells to begin the Kalki contingency.”  
  
The aide nods, walking over to a radio set in the corner of the room. A portal opens up in the air in front of him, the woman firing two shots into the man before she’s even stepped through. In a single second she will have raised her pistol again and fired again, cutting down Rey and Phir Sē both.  
  
I don’t give her the chance.  
  
I see through Rey’s eyes as the metal of the tank ruptures and splinters in a deluge of primordial ooze. I emerge from the mass, lighting fast, and I see myself for the first time. Nine feet tall, I have all the appearance of inhumanity. My body is female, yet covered in tawny-brown downy barbs like a layer of fluff. Twin wings spring from my back, stretching out fifteen feet from tip to tip. My face is sculpted, resembling a stern yet beautiful woman, with just a hint of Eve’s features.  
  
All of it an illusion, sculpted and shaped by my subconscious mind and crystalline memory to ape humanity, while not truly belonging to it. It’s nothing more than rigid flesh and bone; everything of importance is on the other side of the oculus. Those eyes cannot see, and that mouth cannot open.  
  
But the fingers work, as I curl them around the woman’s neck and lift her into the air. She can path around the effect I have on the world, but my body itself is similar enough to my progenitor, to the Endbringer, to be a blind spot for her. She struggles, putting her pistol under my chin and firing shot after shot into inviolate flesh, but it’s a futile effort. She twitches as I close my hand, crushing her neck, until the life leaves her and she falls still. I let the body drop to the floor, slowly descending after it as I turn to regard my creator.  
  
He stands there for a moment, as words fail him, before turning to Phir Sē.  
  
“I told you she would wake.”  
  
“Then it is time she took the field. I would make the broadcast myself, but I doubt many of the international parahumans speak Hindi, and my own English is rusty at best.”  
  
Rey smiles, gleefully rubbing his hands together as he strides over to the radio set, fiddling a little as he finds the right channel.  
  
“Attention defenders of New Delhi,” he speaks. “Thanda operatives are engaging Behemoth. The manner of our engagement may appear concerning, but interference with Thanda operatives will be taken as a violation of the truce and an act of war. Over.”  
  
He sets the headset down and walks back across the room, looking up at me.  
  
“Make me proud,” he says, his meaning clear to see.  
  
I nod, rising up to the ceiling of the bunker. I reach out, fracturing the reinforced concrete and lifting up the earth above it, breaking buildings and shifting soil as I rise yet further. In moments, sunlight streams down on me as I rise even higher, up past the destroyed streets of the city and into the sky.  
  
My telekinesis has its hold on everything in this city. Debris is lifted of the ground in a ten-mile radius around me, steel girders, vehicles and chunks of concrete forming into immense rings that orbit me, all while denser armour plates move to form a shell around my body.  
  
Before me, I can feel the First standing amidst the wrecked ruins of India Gate, looking across the city at me. It has paused, standing stock still as its mind processed and adapts to the changing situation, a predictive engine less complicated than my own turning its attention to me.  
  
I cannot directly see him, or feel him with my telekinesis, but I know his position from the effect he has on the environment around him. The ground beneath his feet, the abnormal temperatures around him that twist and restrict air currents, even the radiation he constantly radiates has its own effect.  
  
I feel him as he takes a single step forwards, almost hesitantly, before he takes another, and another, until he’s sprinting towards me with every immense stride, tearing up the ground beneath his feet and battering aside walls in his rage. I fly backwards, an immense ring of debris splitting and forming a single stream of projectiles that passes beneath me, driving into Behemoth with force that shatters concrete and bends steel, all while another ring slowly begins to build a cage around him.  
  
All the while, his core, his shard, has been bombarding mine for access and information. It is a rote thing, a predictive engine unable to see the difference between me and the Third, who silently orbits the world. It expects compliance, and my denial leaves it dumbfounded as it struggles to react.  
  
I use that moment to sift through possibilities, even as it increases the temperature around it to melt through my makeshift cage. The city is littered with wrecked technology, ranging from the mundane to the fantastical, and I start to strip it all apart. Rare metals are torn from armoured vehicles, arcane power sources are stolen from esoteric technology.  
  
A dozen winged craft in the image of a mythological beast, lying in ruins around the city, are torn apart and repurposed. A man’s prosthetic limbs, filled with impossibly dense circuitry, are torn from him and split into their component pieces, becoming the circuitry of a new and terrible machine.  
  
A ring of obelisks starts to take shape around Behemoth, immense monoliths of black metal that hum with barely contained force. Technology is merged into these obelisks, even as yet more monuments start to take shape behind them until the First is surrounded by concentric circles of shapes.  
  
In a flash, they crackle into life, invisible energy humming between the pylons until the air itself shimmers with the force involved. The energy is directed inwards, towards the First. It latches onto the structure of his own skeleton, so very similar to my own and identical in make and composition to the conductive pillars. It pins the Endbringer in place, even as metal and masonry melts around him.  
  
His predictive engine reacts as best it can, the temperature around him suddenly normalising before dropping off as he draws ambient heat into himself. The ground around him starts to freeze, even as he glows with incandescent heat, an effect that spreads beyond the rings and into the city itself. Any person caught in the field is frozen immediately, and the defending Parahumans begin to frantically flee the area in any way they can.  
  
All except for Rey, who clambers through the rubble trying to get a closer look, ignoring Eve’s attempts to pull him back to safety. He crests a ridge of rubble and I suddenly see myself again through his eyes, concealed deep within a shell of stolen armour plates. The field of frozen cold is slowly approaching him, but he can’t see it. In desperation I push my presence into the paired neurons of the Paradise bird. Its symbiont is primitive, unable to contain the force of my mind, but I am able to get it to speak two words before it expires.  
  
“Run! Now!”  
  
My creator heeds the first two words I have ever spoken to him, and finally allows Lauren to lead him back to where a helicopter is already landing among the ruined city. I get a last look at myself through his eyes as the aircraft rises up and turns away, before I let his sight fall from my eyes and turn my attention back to the First.  
  
The Endbringer, immobilised but not beaten, finally lets slip his control on the energies he has been storing, every inch of his body lighting up with a titanic blast of condensed energy that is to lighting as the ocean is to a glass of water. It carves through my armoured shell in an instant, stripping the flesh from my bones and the bones away from my oculus, my core.  
  
It slips through the hole between dimensions, melting away at the heart of me on the other side. It burns indiscriminately, destroying synapses and muscles and flesh-engines. Yet this is the only option available. If I had not taken this path, the First would have killed Rey, and I would have died. I cannot kill Behemoth and he cannot escape his confinement, but I can let him occupy himself by burning away my flesh until another arrives who _can_ end him. It will result in the destruction of ninety five percent of my mass, but I will endure.  
  
I will survive.  
  
I slip my attention away from the present, back to the familiar comfort of past and future, and follow the path to victory.


	108. Predators: 16.01

“She seem familiar to you?” Faultline asks, passing me her phone. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me since we left Earth One, the first time her phone hasn’t been glued to the side of her head. I’m still completely in the dark about what the fuck happened to get her this way and why it meant we needed to catch a chartered flight to Vasco de Gama.

I fumble with the phone, holding it against the steering wheel as I momentarily turn my focus away from the road. It’s not the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but there’s not much of a risk of colliding with another car, not when the Indians have decided to provide us with a police escort through the city. It’s still safer than letting Faultline or Gregor drive. I recently learned that neither of them actually has an HGV license and promptly kicked them out of the driver’s seat until I’m satisfied in their abilities.

The picture is of a corpse, still fresh by the look of it. A woman in a neatly-pressed dress shirt and slacks. My eyes widen a little as I get a good look at her face, her eyes still wide and her face frozen in a desperate grimace. She seems to have been killed by something crushing her neck and splintering her spine.

I almost can’t believe it. She seemed so invincible before, flawless and perfect in her every movement. My first instinct is that it’s a fake or a trap, but Faultline wouldn’t be bringing us here if it was anything less than genuine.

“This is… How?”

Faultline takes the phone back from me before answering.

“She attacked the Thanda in New Dehli. They had a Parahuman that could counter her power, which was apparently to ‘see the paths to victory and execute them flawlessly.’ It’s the inherent uncertainty of all parahumans; a cape can seem invincible, unbeatable, right until they aren’t. There’s always something out there that can counter a power, or some esoteric interaction we can’t predict.”

“Like Labyrinth and Scrub,” I muse.

“Exactly. Who could have expected that using their powers together would create interdimensional portals? Except for Tattletale, I suppose. Even she only found out because of her power interacting with theirs. Part of the reason you’re so valuable is that you’re a known quantity. There’s nothing complicated about your abilities, except in the way you use them.”

“So what happens now?”

“Cauldron attacked the Thanda in the middle of an Endbringer attack on New Dehli. The Thanda’s… response wasn’t the sort of thing you could keep quiet. Most people still have no idea who Cauldron is, but information has been steadily disseminating through various intelligence agencies.”

I pause, ready to brake for the lights at an intersection, only for a pair of police motorbikes to speed ahead of the convoy and stop traffic on both sides, giving us a clear run through the red light.

“The very next day after Behemoth was killed, Chevalier was called in to testify before a closed session of the UN security council. Then he was called to do the same in the Oval Office and the office of the Canadian Prime Minister. Whatever damage control the Protectorate were trying to pull has completely collapsed. The FBI, aided by Watchdog capes, have raided no less than twelve different PRT departments to properly clean house.”

And the house comes crumbling down. Part of me wonders if the Protectorate can survive this. On the one hand, purging their ranks of Cauldron’s supporters might give the others a point to rally around. On the other hand, those same supporters might be the only thing holding the Protectorate together. Ah well, not like the Protectorate matters to us.

“On the international front,” Faultline continues, “the Metropolitan Police in London have raided the offices of the King’s Men and the Suits over irregularities in their funding. In Russia, the Elitnaya Armiya have used the news about Cauldron as an excuse to escalate their feud with the Red Gauntlet. Open warfare almost broke out in cities where both factions operate.”

She trails off as a text comes in on her phone, typing out a quick response before carrying on.

“The Thanda have gone on the warpath. Since Behemoth’s death, they’ve been linked to no less than one hundred and seventeen assassinations, and twenty-two kidnappings, against Cauldron personal across Eurasia. My own intelligence suggests that Phir Sē has used the attack to push the Thanda towards a more centralised structure.”

“Sounds like Cauldron were relying on that cape to keep their organisation afloat. I imagine it’s pretty easy to become dependant on a cape whose power is ‘winning.’”

“They’re far from defenceless. They sprung Eidolon from house arrest and stole Alexandria’s body from a secure morgue. Both have disappeared without a trace. They’ve also been acting through their agents, calling in as many debts as they can before the FBI catches up with their debtors. The Red Gauntlet have been making moves, but I’m not quite sure why.”

“We’re late to the party,” I observe, smiling a little. No matter how you swing it, this can only be good for us.

The police car leads our little convoy through the gates of yet another military base, this one defended by a whole squad of soldiers rather than the few guards the base in Delhi had. They’ve got a Raptor off to the side, a musclebound imitation of my body that sits up on its haunches as we pass, either smelling me or our cargo.

“I prefer to think of it as taking adequate precautions. Everyone else is scrambling to react, hastily drawing up plans and adapting them on the fly as they try to fight an enemy they don’t really understand. But we’ve been building up to this for months now, ever since the first clues fell in our lap.”

We pass between gargantuan warehouses, beneath the immense shape of a ship in drydock, before emerging onto an expansive pier stretching out into the small bay. One side of this dock is completely occupied by an enormous ship, an aircraft carrier two hundred and twenty-five meters long and maybe fifty wide. A forest of helicopters occupies its deck, rotor blades being folded back as the aircraft are brought down elevators and into the ship itself. As I watch, a flight of six bulbous gunships comes in to circle the ship, landing one by one.

The docks beneath the ship are absolutely covered with bustling sailors and soldiers, uniformed and armed men filing up a narrow walkway to the ship while others gather around cranes and containers, lifting up pallets of supplies onto the deck of the ship itself. The police car guides me in to park the lorry near one of the latter groups, before disappearing off to who knows where.

Faultline steps out of the cab and I follow her. To my right, a minibus pulls up and the rest of the Crew gets out, each one of them, except for Elle, carrying a bag of gear over their shoulders. None of them are masked; there’s no point anymore. They’re saving their masks, their costumes and their armour, for the battlefield. Off it, none of us have any secret identities to hide, no ties to protect except our ties to each other.

Faultline herself has, once again, dressed to match her environment. When she wasn’t costumed, she used to wear business chic. It fit well into the dirty world of industrial espionage and corporate mercenary work the Crew used to operate in. In the Bay after Leviathan, or on the streets of London, she dressed down with the aim of blending in. We were sneakier then, trying to gather information without being seen.

Now she’s wearing a pair of dark grey combat trousers and utilitarian black boots, topped off by a white shirt with epaulettes. It would make her look like a security guard, if it weren’t for the close-fitting red beret on her head. When one of the sailors walks up and salutes her, she returns the gesture looking every inch the mercenary soldier, fitting in perfectly among this army readying itself for war.

“Ma’am,” the officer – I think – says as he salutes the boss, “I’m Lieutenant Shah, here to see your people to their berths. Chief Petty Officer Vadekar,” here he gestures to the man standing beside him, an older fellow with the look of a docker about him, “will see your cargo is brought safely aboard.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Faultline says, pronouncing the word differently. “Sonnie,” she turns to me, “stick around and help the Chief get everything on smoothly.”

Make sure he doesn’t fuck up or go snooping, you mean.

“Sure thing, boss. S’not my first rodeo.”

The others head off to wherever exactly they’re going to put us on that massive ship. I turn my attention back to the lorry and to the small group of dockers being gathered up by the chief. This is familiar territory to me; marshalling whatever few roadies the venue had to offer or, at the worst places, somehow figuring out a way to handle it all myself. Dicko’s joint had almost been perfectly professional. Like the man himself, the rot festered beneath an immaculate surface.

“We’re ready when you are,” ma’am,” the Chief says as he looks me up and down, his tone suggesting he doesn’t see me as worthy of that title. It’s a fair cop.

“I’m nobody’s mum, mate, just call me Sonnie. We’ve got one bit of bulk cargo that needs moving and a few smaller crates and cases.”

I walk to the back of the rented lorry, flicking the switch to lower the lift before clambering up onto it to open the rear doors. I smile as I see myself, an ominous silhouette shrouded by the unlit tank. I step forwards for a closer look, even though there’s no way I’ll be able to see all the minute little tune-ups Ivrina made, all the little bits of wear, tear and simple neglect she was able to patch up. She works for Faultline now as well, but she stayed behind to be our woman on Earth Zero. But as long as Khanivore’s with me, I have a little reminder of her.

“A Raptor,” the Chief says, surprised. “I didn’t know there were any in private hands.”

“Not quite,” I reply, smiling as I look down at him from the lift. “This is the original, you could say. The prototype whose genes went into all your little creatures.”

“There’s a story behind that,” he muses, as I jump off the lift and use the remote to move the tank onto it.

“There is,” I say, lowering the lift to the ground, “but we don’t have time for it now. I assume there’s a deadline to meet in getting this stuff on board?”

“There is,” he says. “Is this all the cargo?”

“Nah, there’s the crates in the back as well.” I point to the stacked metal and plastic cases at the far end of the trailer, the weapons and armour we’ve imported from Earth One.

“Any handling requirements?”

“Treat the tank like it’s made of glass,” I say as I hand him the remote for its wheels, “because parts of it are. Hook it up to a power supply if you can and leave it so that there’s room for the door to open up, so we can bring the creature out for routine checks. Try and keep the crates as close to wherever you’re putting our people as possible; they’ve got some of our weapons and armour in them.”

“Understood, Sonnie,” he fiddles with the remote for a few moments as he gets the hang of things. “We’ll have it all squared away soon.”

“Welcome back to India,” a voice speaks up from behind me. I turn to see Eve striding towards me across the dock, dressed in a costume that’s half-robe half-longcoat, brown leather flowing in a breeze that doesn’t actually exist. It suddenly strikes me that I’ve got absolutely no idea what her power is.

“I have to say, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Or at all.”

“Good to see you too, Eve,” I say, as she turns her attention to watch a flatbed military truck creep towards us, a big metal container on the back of it. It’s maybe three meters tall and two wide. There’s no clear door that I can see.

“Got another crate for you, Chief,” Eve tells the docker. “Put it somewhere accessible, if you can.”

“Certainly, ma’am,” he replies, directing a couple of his team to sort it out.

“What’s in the box?” I ask Eve, standing beside her as she looks up at it.

“Just another ace up our sleeve,” she replies, cryptically. “Where’s the rest of Palanquin?”

“Already on board. Faultline asked me to stick around and make sure our shit got where it should.”

“I’ll have to touch base with her soon,” she says, as the two of us watch my tank being hoisted up to the deck by a crane. “I’ve been assigned as the liaison between the different groups and the military.”

“Sounds like a thankless job…” I murmur.

“It’s not so bad,” she smiles. “At least everyone’s professional. The Irregulars especially. Weld was asking after you.”

“He’s here already then?” I turn to her as I ask.

“They arrived about an hour ago. They’re already on board.”

She trails off as a convoy of mismatched trucks and buses drives onto the dock, escorted by yet another police car.

“And that’s the Thanda. Everyone’s here, and well within schedule.”

I watch as people pile out of the vehicles, dressed in identical brown fatigues and with black balaclavas over their face. Each one of them is armed, with rifles, rocket launchers, all sorts of things, but none of them are obviously capes.

“I take it the capes are dressed the same as the regular grunts so the enemy don’t know who they are,” I wonder aloud.

“Or to fuck with me,” Eve replies tersely. “Figuring out which of them’s in charge is going to be a fucking nightmare.”

“So I know why Palanquin and the Irregulars are here,” I say, as the Thanda start to unload their bags with single minded coordination and the complete absence of any obvious leaders, “and I know the Thanda are responding to an attack on them, but what’s the government’s stake in all this?”

“It’s a question of manpower,” Eve begins, turning to watch as her own crate is lifted up and onto the ship, “specifically Parahuman manpower. You heard about New Delhi, right?” she asks, continuing when I nod. “It wasn’t anything like Leviathan’s attack on Brockton Bay. The Protectorate was warned of that attack by predictive software, and they were able to bring in hundreds of reinforcements thanks to a mass-teleporter cape called Strider.”

The crate is set down onto the deck, where it’s wheeled away by crew on the ship. I can’t see where my tank’s gone, so I quickly open my eyes and catch a glimpse of an expansive hanger slowly filling with aircraft and cargo.

“The Protectorate’s software failed to predict the attack on New Delhi,” Eve continues, “and Strider was killed in Brockton Bay. What that means is that the Garama were left to hold the line for an hour and a half, as reinforcements were flown in from around the world. The organisation was effectively wiped out, and a lot of the survivors ended up flash-frozen when Behemoth was killed. It means India has lost out in the Parahuman balance of power.”

She smiles, the self-satisfied look of a successful planner.

“Rey’s working on a way of cloning their corpses, but it’ll take years for the connection to their symbiotes to grow in properly. In the meantime, we reached out to the Irregulars on the Thanda’s behalf. I wouldn’t say Rey _knew_ Weld, but they knew _of_ each other. They were both operating in Boston at the same time. When Weld told us that he suspected Cauldron were holding thousands of powered mutants in their base, we proposed a way for India to recover their lost manpower and deal a blow to the organisation that broke the truce in their city.”

I take a look around the yard, at the sheer scale of both the carrier itself and the operations around it. It’s one hell of a coalition we’ve managed to put together, based off nothing but favours owed and mutual contacts.

“Anyway,” Eve says, stepping away from me, “I need to go play Where’s Waldo with the Thanda. Head up the gangplank, Sonnie, we’ll be sailing soon.”

I nod, turning away from her and walking towards the narrow ramp up into the ship itself. I end up following a line of uniformed navy people, who all hold things up considerably by stopping and saluting as they step onto the ship. The corridors of the thing are packed full of people rushing here and there, and I can’t help but feel like I’m just getting in the way. So I flag down just enough people to figure out how to get onto the flight deck and try to find myself a patch of empty space.

Instead I find Faultline, standing beneath the ramp and looking out over the bay. I walk over to her and, as I pass the tower, the first thing I notice is that our force doesn’t have one ship, it has six. The carrier is just the biggest. Five more ships are moored out across the bay, their grey hulls lit up orange by the slowly setting sun. Four of them look like warships, whatever a warship looks like, with tubes and guns and radars, while the last is larger and seems to have more of a supporting role.

Faultline’s looking out over this fleet with her hands clasped behind her back, staring out silently across the expanse of water. I can only imagine what she’s thinking at this moment; she’s the one who set up the alliance between us and the Irregulars, even if it was based off my friendship with Weld. That alliance is what allowed all this to happen.

“Penny for your thoughts, boss?” I ask as I sidle up to her, joining her in looking out over the bay.

“Alea iacta est,” she answers, frustratingly cryptically.

“That’s great and all, boss, but I don’t speak any more Italian now than I did in London.”

She smiles, turning away from the view to regard me.

“Sorry. I get… dramatic sometimes. An old habit I’m trying to break. It’s Latin. It means ‘the die has been cast.’ Supposedly, it’s what Julius Caesar said before he marched on Rome, as he stood on the banks of the river Rubicon, which no soldiers were allowed to cross. It means you’ve passed the point of no return. Sure, there’s still one last step to take, but we can’t exactly turn back now, can we?”

We could. I mean, we physically could. We could get off this ship now, go live like kings on Earth One and never even speak of Earth Bet and all its baggage. Except we can’t, can we? I can’t. Cauldron’s spectre will hang over Gregor and Newter and Shamrock and Weld for the rest of their lives. They’ll always think of the others, of the prisoners we know Cauldron keeps, and they’ll feel guilt for having escaped that fate.

“The truth is, Sonnie, we’ve been building up to this moment for months. Every bit of information we gathered, every time we chose to take a stand rather than retreat, to push deeper rather than giving up, has been leading up to this moment. The weight of every choice we’ve made is what’s driving us onwards, on a path that can only have one ending. We succeed, or we fail.”

Across from us, way out over the water, I can see the anchor chains of the other ships slowly start to rise out of the water. The deck beneath my feet starts to shudder and groan as the carrier’s own anchor chain is hauled upwards by immense engines. That’s it; there’s no going back now.


	109. Predators: 16.02

The funny thing about being on a ship, especially as a passenger, is that there’s not really a lot to do. Oh, the place is busy enough, but all the work is being done by the actual crew. We’re surrounded by people with so much on their plate that they seem to be constantly rushing everywhere but, as passengers, we’re not involved in any of it. In fact, we’re more of a hindrance at times. I sometimes get the impression that they prefer cargo that doesn’t move about or argue.

But there’s no way Faultline would let us wile away the journey doing not much of anything. Every morning, before breakfast, she’s got us all running laps of the carrier’s flight deck, making use of what little space isn’t covered in helicopters. Then, after breakfast, it’s straight into combat drills until lunch.

At this point, we’re a well-oiled machine. Faultline has us building up our individual fighting skills, of course, but she also has us working with each other, playing off each other’s strengths and weaknesses. It’s hard to get things completely right on a moving ship, with Labyrinth and Scrub unable to use their powers for fear of trashing the place, but we’re working through it as best we can. It doesn’t affect how we move, and it won’t affect how we’ll fight at the end of our voyage, wherever that end may be.

My place is at the front, slicing and dicing with the best of them. If the enemy have a strong frontline – forcefields, other brutes, anything – my job is to go around it, to duck and weave and cut my way through their soft underbelly. Scrub is also a frontliner, but of a different sort. He’s more fragile, but his power is an unstoppable force. His job is to head straight in to the thickest resistance and cut away at them. It doesn’t matter how powerful you are, what barriers you put up. His power eats through it all.

But he’s vulnerable, a glass cannon in every sense of the world. So, he’s constantly shadowed by Shamrock. Her power makes her a jack of all trades but, more importantly, it makes her the only person who can operate in range of Scrub without risking being chewed up by his power. She sticks close enough to keep him safe from any close threats his power doesn’t catch, while her rifle, an Earth One model, lets her cut down anyone else who looks like they’re about to break through.

The next row, if you want to think about it like a football team, specialise in battlefield control. Gregor’s power might take a while to charge, especially if he wants to switch from one chemical to another, but it can turn an overwhelming front into a manageable one by filling the air with poisonous gas, hiding us behind concealing smoke or throwing out adhesives, acids and anything else that can give us the edge.

Spitfire isn’t anywhere near as flexible as Gregor, but she makes up for it in raw utility. An enemy can’t cross a burning road, they can’t ambush us from a burning building. There weren’t many teams in America that could field seven capes at once, but we’re not in America anymore. We can’t count on the advantage of numbers, and Spitfire lets us cut that advantage away from them.

If Spitfire and Gregor are area denial, affecting whole swathes of ground at a time, then Newter is a scalpel. He’s less bound to the rest of us; he’d be wasted slogging it along the ground. Instead his job is to move, to circle the enemy, watching and waiting for a weakness, then strike. With his power, all he needs to do is touch a patch of exposed skin to take someone out of the fight for good. He’s the sort of subtle knife that can change the course of a battle.

Labyrinth isn’t subtle. She’s a wall for enemies to break themselves against. Not really useful on the offensive, but, when the enemy are pushing hard and we have to hold ground rather than take it, there’s no better person than her at defence. The longer we hold, the more range she gets until she can simply overwhelm whoever’s attacking us and turn the flow of the whole fight.

None of this would be possible without Faultline. It’s not just in making sure we’re trained to work together; she’s an expert battlefield coordinator. She’s got the most experience in Parahuman fighting out of all of us, and that means she knows just about every trick the enemy can pull. It’s muscle memory of a sort, like how I instinctively know how to duck and weave my monstrous body to break through an enemy’s defence. Without Faultline, our well-oiled machine would inevitably break under the unpredictable strain of real combat.

If it weren’t for Blasto’s mind-linked cyborg-servitors, we’d be the most coordinated group on board. We’re certainly better than the Irregulars. Don’t get me wrong; Weld’s people are good at what they do, but they’ve come from a whole host of Wards and Protectorate teams, not to mention the odd recruit from Parahuman Asylums. They’re still getting used to working together with their new team.

The one advantage they do have over us is in sheer numbers. Weld and his people have gathered together over fifty different capes, with more they apparently left behind for being too young. Weld’s done what he can to arrange them all into squads that compliment each other, but he’s gone from ‘leading’ a single Wards team, however much input the PRT let their Wards leaders have, to running a heroic mercenary company without any of the support structures he’s used to having.

That’s not to say that they aren’t good, they are, but they’re not as good as us.

One thing that they do have which we don’t is a countermeasure to any precogs or Thinkers Cauldron might still have. Mantellum is a weird one, even by the already eclectic standards of Weld’s group. At first, I thought he was wearing a big cloak as some sort of weird costume holdover, a lot of the Irregulars having kept their Protectorate-made costumes. Then I realised that the cloak is part of him, like a fusion of a manta ray on a human body.

He moves unnaturally, his cloak and long tail almost floating in the air. What’s important about him is that he’s a power nullifier, both of powers around him and anyone using powers to watch him. He’s a blind spot, someone the Irregulars were training up to counter Contessa. Now he’s their counter against the Custodian, the omnipresent prison guard Shamrock told us about.

The rest of the Irregulars are honestly too varied to even begin to describe. They’re a mismatched bunch, and not just because of their varied appearances. Weld’s done what he can to hold them together, but the main thing that unites them is a desire not to be in the Protectorate anymore. More than once I’ve stumbled across groups of them arguing over what they’re actually going to do when they win, _if_ they win. The main argument seems to be divided between those who want revenge on Cauldron, with Gully the most vocal voice among them, and those who want to keep to the ideals of nonlethal heroism they held as Protectorate members, led by Weld.

Another thing they seem to be divided on is how they think of us. They’ve gone from government heroes, with all the patriotism and prejudices that entails, to mercenaries. Heroic mercenaries, sure, but mercenaries all the same. We’ve been in the business a lot longer than they have, and that means some of them keep hanging around our quarters or watching our training sessions like our wisdom is going to somehow rub off on them. Others want nothing to do with us, keeping to their own section of the ship.

As for Weld himself, I still haven’t really had the chance to talk to him. I spend most of my free time either idling in our room, going over the gear we imported or running Khanivore through some checks and drills. In the evening, I like to take the big lift up to the flight deck itself and sit with my legs dangling over the side, looking out at the sea. That’s where he finds me, ducking carefully through the tower’s door so he doesn’t accidentally stick to it.

He’s changed his look since I last saw him. Before, he looked like a perfect metal sculpture of a boy in his late teens. It was friendly, approachable, and probably occupied posters on bedroom walls across the whole country. He’s bulked up since then, shed that little bit of humanity. He’s armoured himself with scales and horns, made his body just a little bit less symmetrical. Another Case-53, a mass of tendrils and tentacles, is entwined with him, her fleshy strands woven through his body and held down by metal growths. Her face is embedded on top of Weld’s shoulder, looking outwards even as she talks up to him.

It’s one of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something.

He crosses the flight deck to where I’m sitting, gingerly stepping over one of my splayed-out tendrils and waving politely.

“Hey, Sonnie. It’s been a while. I was starting to think you were avoiding me.”

“Nah,” I reply, leaning back to look at him. He’s staying back from the edge of the deck, which, I suppose, is fair enough. He’d sink like a stone.

“You just seemed busy, is all. You’ve got a lot on your plate right now. I stick clear of the boss for much the same reason. But if you’ve got time, then I’ve got time. Who’s your squeeze there?”

The face bursts into laughter, especially when she sees the dumbfounded look on Weld’s face. He might not be able to blush, but he sure looks like he wants to.

“I’m Sveta,” she says in a slightly slavic accent, when it becomes clear Weld is still processing what he just heard. “You’re with Palanquin, right? Weld told me about you.”

“All bad, I hope,” I flash her a grin full of my pearly whites. “I’m glad to finally meet someone who appreciates my sense of humour.”

“Oh, I’ll laugh at anything. I’ve got a very dark sense of humour; my username on PHO is still _G-string girl_.”

I burst into laughter, using my throat rather than my voicebox, and, after a moment, she joins in.

“ _Nice_. I went with sunny disposition for mine, because my name is Sonnie, I’m not where I’m supposed to be, and I’m a total bitch.”

“That’s deep,” she smiles. “Anyway, I’m going to go for a swim, leave the two of you to catch up. Weld, if you wouldn’t mind?”

“Sure thing,” he says, finally snapping out of his mortified funk. He steps over to the edge of the deck, as close as he dares, and starts to creep back the metal that’s covering Sveta’s tendrils. They’re narrower than mine, some of them small enough to be almost razor-sharp, and she throws herself from Weld’s body and off the side of the ship with immense force. As she goes, I see what looks like vestigial organs attached to some of the thicker tendrils at the center of her mass.

“G-string girl?” I ask Weld, as she darts through the waves below us like some sort of eldritch octopus.

“Because she’s made of strings, and spends most of her time wrapped around a pole,” Weld answers, with something like exasperation in her voice. “I don’t understand _how_ she’s able to laugh about it, but I’m glad that she can.”

He sits down, squatting first so he doesn’t accidentally make skin-contact with the metal deck. His hands are gloved, but he’s wearing a tanktop. Probably so that Sveta has something to latch onto.

“They called her _Garotte_ ,” he continues, looking out into the distance. “In the Asylum, I mean. That’s what the _doctors_ called her. Her power… it’s super-strength, but it comes with significant mental impulses. She _has_ to hold onto something, sometimes. If it wasn’t me, it’d be one of the others. Or anyone she happens to be near. That’s who I’m dealing with now, Sonnie. Those are the kind of people I’m responsible for.”

“You’ll do fine, Weld,” I say, reassuringly. “You’re good at this leader lark, and you’ve got some good people in the Irregulars. Sveta included.”

“I know,” he leans back, looking up at the sky. “But I’m worried, Sonnie. They’re so… _angry_ , and I know they have every right to be angry. I just… I don’t want this to be about _revenge_. We’re better than that… we should be better than that.”

He falls silent, and it takes me a few moments to figure out what to say.

“You’re an idealist, Weld. You always have been, and you always will be. It’s why I like you, why the Protectorate liked you and why the Irregulars rallied around you. But I’m not. I don’t care about _ideals_. Everyone’s got _ideals_ , fuck, even Cauldron probably has some.”

I look out across the water at the other ships surrounded us, immense masses of metal cutting through the ocean.

“How many people do you think are in this fleet? Four thousand? Five? More? I bet if you were to ask them why they’re here, you’d get a dozen different answers. Duty, maybe, for the sailors and soldiers. Opportunism, for Blasto. Justice, kindness, answers and, yes, revenge. Dozens of different motives, but I don’t care _why_ you’re doing something. All that matters is what you’re doing.”

I turn away from the ocean to look him in the eye.

“Doesn’t matter if they fight for revenge or justice; all those subjects are still going to be set free.”

He smiles, but I don’t know if it’s genuine.

“You know, you’re not bad at being a leader either. That was some real inspirational stuff.”

I snort, but he doesn’t look like he’s joking.

“I’m not a leader, Weld. Not like you, or Faultline. At heart, I’m still just a drifter.”

I lean forwards, wrapping a tendril around the wheel of a nearby helicopter as I look down at the crashing waves beneath us.

“My whole life, it’s like I’ve been lost at sea, struggling against the current and the waves. Every now and then a bit of flotsam would come along. The dealer I pushed for, the gang I ran with, the burglar who took me under his wing. I clung to those people for dear life, a little bit of stability as the waves battered us, because, no matter how much I played the streetwise lone-wolf, I was desperate for genuine human company.”

I’d smile, if I still had the muscles for it. It’s only been a few years, but those memories of my earliest days, when I flew the nest far earlier than I should because I just couldn’t fucking stand it anymore, are foggy with the passage of time. I’ve been through so much since then, it’s like every emotion attached to those memories has become distant.

“But it always fell apart in the end. I’d fuck it up, or they’d fuck it up, or something else would happen and we’d all be fucked, and I drifted back off into the waves again.”

Weld is silent, watching me with an indiscernible expression on his face.

“I thought I’d found what I was looking for with the Predators. I thought that maybe we wouldn’t drift apart this time, that I’d finally found somewhere I could belong, but I fucked that up. They saved me because they loved me, but I couldn’t see it. I was still there in body, still with them every night, but my mind had been swept away. I was lost to my anger, my hate… my fear.”

I used to be so _scared_ , but I wasn’t scared of the pit. It was the world around me that drove me to throw myself into there, fight after fight, chasing death because living no longer felt like life. There was only one way it could end, without the intervention of a miracle.

“And then, I fell in with Palanquin. Suddenly I couldn’t retreat into Khanivore because Sonnie and Khanivore were the same person. I could be both, _had_ to be both, for the first time.”

The thought of the others waiting downstairs fills my heart with warmth. My human body is lying on a bunk in our quarters. I slip into it for the briefest of moments, opening my eyes just long enough to see them gathered around a table playing cards, while Labyrinth buries her head in her sketchbook. I let slip my control, turning back to Weld.

“They drew me out of my shell, showed me the life I’d been missing out on. Every single one of them has been fucked over by life in one way or another but, rather than retreat from it like I did, they all chose to embrace life as best they could. To go chasing after what they don’t have rather than accepting they’ll never have it.”

I don’t know how long it took me to realise it. Cricket was the start, a dark mirror of the person I could have become, but she was just a warning sign. I didn’t act on it. When Faultline took me out behind that warehouse in Ohio and told me she’d choose the group over me if I didn’t wise up, that was another. I don’t think I can point to any one defining moment, just a whole heap of events and examples that coaxed me out of the prison I’d built up around myself.

“They’re my fucking lifeboat and I’m holding onto them tighter than ever before. I’m never letting go, no matter where this made expedition leads us, how it all ends, because I’ve finally found what I’ve been looking for all these years.”

Weld knows what I’m going to say, but he’s silent. He understands that this is something I need to admit to myself.

“Family.”


	110. Predators: 16.03

You can’t fly over Africa anymore. It threw me for a loop when we had to catch a connecting flight through London Heathrow when we travelled to Oman, but there was so much other shit going on at that point that I never bothered to question the strange route. If I had taken the time to think about it, I’d probably end up chalking it up to just another tech difference between Earth Bet and Earth One. I’d have been right, but not in the way I’d have assumed.

It’s not the tech-gap that makes a direct flight to Oman impossible. It’s not aircraft fuel limits or consumer supply and demand, though both of those are probably part of it. It’s just a simple yet terrifying reality; you can’t fly over Africa anymore. Every now and then you’ll get a company that makes a big splash about reopening the air lanes, only to quietly shelve the project as they realise the scale of the effort needed to make that route safe.

They say Parahumans only emerged in the eighties. Or, at least, that’s when the public became aware of them. It was a slow process but, over the course of that decade, every part of the world was shaken up by the miracles of the new age. Society shifted towards accepting what used to be the stuff of comic books and cheap films, nations had to struggle to adapt to parahuman crime, and parahuman vigilantes. Oppressed groups flared up as the tighter the oppressors stamped down, the more of the oppressed gained powers. Nations buckled under the strain, reshaping themselves in unrecognisable ways but somehow clinging on in spite of the storm.

Everywhere except for Africa.

It’s not their fault. Africa was full of new nations emerging from the shadows of old empires and stepping into the bold light of the new decade. Governments and laws were forming overnight, as nations struggled to build in months what other lands had developed over centuries of strife and torment. They weren’t ready for the new world and it broke them, in the end. Not the whole continent, of course. Morocco, Tunisia, Egypt, Eritrea, Djibouti, Ethiopia, Kenya, Mozambique and South Africa have all managed to cling to some semblance of statehood, even if it’s beneath repressive dictators or military juntas.

But those are the only names on the map projected on the wall of the briefing room. Of the rest, the agricultural and industrial powerhouses of Earth One, nothing remains.

I’ve seen so much since I came to this world: immense sea walls shielding a Canadian port; a city sundered by Parahuman gangs, sheltering in fear of an insurgency; that same city sundered again by an immense monster, left as little more than waterlogged ruins; people clambering out of those ruins and rallying around new gangs, the worst of human nature laid bare; bombs falling from the sky, as a _police force_ destroys whole city blocks to contain a threat.

I’ve seen so much, but none of it chills me more than the empty expanse that fills the map, beyond the sparse national borders. Where territories and cities _are_ marked, they’re caveated by little dates that say just when this information was last verified. The oldest of them, the ones at the heart of the map in what _I_ know as the Democratic Republic of the Congo and the Central African Republic, are almost fifteen years old. They might as well have written ‘here be dragons’ for all that information is worth.

You can’t fly over Africa anymore because anyone who tries gets shot down by warlords fearful of foreign incursions, or forced to land so the passengers can be ransomed off. They’re all Parahumans, of course, modern-day lords squatting in fortresses rather than castles and surrounded by retainers armed with assault rifles, tanks and chemical weapons rather than swords and lances.

Worse than that, they’re a complete unknown. None of us have any experience in this sort of thing. The military people might, in other areas of the world that are slowly collapsing into the same state as Africa, but everyone knows they’re not the ones who are going to be making a difference here. The briefing room is large, and it’s absolutely full of capes.

We’re all split off into our little blocks, with the military people gathered around Eve, a mass of different yet coherent uniforms for the army, the navy and the marine commandoes. The Thanda, in comparison, are all uniform, even if their uniforms look better suited to a terror cell than an organised military. The Irregulars, of course, are almost comically varied, even if they’re still presenting a united front. And then there’s us, squashed between the various larger groups.

Of course, none of us are here in full. There’s simply not enough space in the room. Me and Gregor are the only Palanquin members in the seats, with Faultline standing with the leadership at the head of the room. She’s chatting to Weld, while Blasto talks to a Thanda member in the same uniform as the rest of them. A naval officer, who I think is in charge judging by the amount of gold on his epaulettes, takes his place at the head of the room and all conversation trails off.

“At ease,” he says to the third of the room that actually bothered smartening themselves up.

“Before I begin the briefing and hand off to the various commanders, I need to make you all aware of recent developments. At oh-two-hundred hours last night, central time, Red Gauntlet forces stationed in Pakistan as part of a training mission launched an invasion of India. It was followed by the mass mobilisation of Red Gauntlet forces throughout Eurasia. Overnight, they have launched a number of lighting raids on military and government headquarters.”

The reaction is mixed, with the military members and the Thanda the most shocked. Not their leader, though. He just stands there, impassively.

“Due to the devastation of Behemoth’s attack on New Delhi, the Protectorate have agreed to provide support in the form of several rapid-reaction teams. The fighting is not going well but, so far, the main body of Red Gauntlet’s forces have been unable to gain much ground. Pakistan has denied any involvement in the attack, claiming that Red Gauntlet overpowered their own military. They may not be involved in the offensive, but it has become clear they won’t lift a finger to stop it.”

He grits his teeth, pausing to look around the room.

“As for the purpose behind Red Gauntlet’s attack; we suspect they are hunting for us, even if they don’t know it’s us they’re looking for. Thinker intelligence suggests that they launched their attack at Cauldron’s request, no doubt in an attempt to either slow the progress of our hunt for them or to find out what our plans are. The shadow war has been dragged into the light.”

He schools his expression back to carefully-maintained neutrality.

“None of this changes our mission. If anything, it just makes it more important that we succeed. If we can bring Cauldron’s leadership down in a surgical strike, the Red Gauntlet will have no incentive to continue fighting. After all; why would a mercenary fight without pay?”

Faultline smirks a little at that, as the officer zooms in on the map of Africa, until the screen is filled by a broad shot of the Gulf of Guinea. Cities are marked out along the coast, without any dates next to them. I guess that means the information is up-to-date; it’s probably easier to keep in contact with cities on the coast.

“Thinker assessment has revealed Cauldron facilities around the world. In the United States, Italy, the Middle East, New Siam, but the highest concentration of positives comes from the Gulf of Guinea. Specifically, the Free City of Abidjan. We believe that this is the location of their headquarters.”

He shrinks the map again, focusing in on the city itself for a brief moment before switching over to a satellite photo of an expansive sprawl of buildings amongst larger concrete structures and pressed up against the coast.

“Abidjan is part of a group of four city-states along the northern coast of the Gulf, with the others being Lome, Porto-Novo and Lagos. The cities serve as gateways to Africa, both in and out. Warlords across East and Central Africa use these neutral cities to trade with the rest of the world. The most lucrative trade is in conflict diamonds, oil, uranium, human and parahuman trafficking. These are some of the wealthiest cities in Africa. Abidjan itself is particularly stable, having been ruled by the same coalition of warlords since the collapse of the Ivory Coast.”

He gestures to a man standing with the other leaders, dressed in a military uniform with a red beret on his head.

“I will now hand over to Colonel Singh, who will command the assault.”

“Thank you, sir,” the man replies, as he steps up to the front.

“As is the case with the majority of developed coastal cities,” the Colonel begins, “Abidjan has invested in defences aimed at delaying an Endbringer. These defences were reinforced following the destruction of Accra by Leviathan in two-thousand and seven. However, they were made to delay an Endbringer, not an invading force. That means an emphasis on physical barriers. Sea walls, in effect.”

He changes the map up again, this time showing some sort of battlefield plan with arrows stretching off from the carrier group towards the city.

“The assault will proceed as follows: first, the city’s defences will be bombarded by the carrier group; second, the airmobile force will take off from the carrier deck and fly towards the city. While they are in-flight, the carrier’s Sea Harriers will be launched to hit targets of opportunity.”

Another change of map, this one much closer in to the city.

“Once we are inside the city, expect heavy but disorganised fighting. In addition to the personal forces of the coalition of warlords that rules Abidjan, the city is one of the main ports of entry for mercenary companies and it is likely they will fight in the city’s defence. We do _not_ , however, need to be worried about reinforcements arriving from the other cities. Since the destruction of Accra, Abidjan has become more and more isolated from the other Free Cities.”

Looking around the room, everyone seems to be watching with rapt attention. Everyone understands that this is big; bigger than anything we’ve attempted before. This isn’t cops and robbers anymore.

“Once resistance has been suppressed, we will withdraw to a defensible location where Palanquin will create a breach into Cauldron’s dimension. Depending on the situation, we will either form a perimeter around the portal or bring all our forces through and close it from the other side. Retreat is not an option.”

The Colonel starts to go through more details, the procedural stuff involved in running an operation this big. I listen, but most of it’s going over my head, if I’m being honest. Still, I leave the briefing room a little more informed than when I entered it. Faultline, of course, took it all in and echoed the brief to the rest of Palanquin.

The next few hours passed in a blur of preparations. In all honesty, we’ve been ready for days, but the briefing just hammered home the reality of the situation. So everyone starts going back over their gear: cleaning weapons, fiddling with belts and pouches, and buckling up their armour to make sure it’s all working okay.

I help where I can; it’s not all too dissimilar to the sort of roadie work I used to do for the Predators. They all had their niches and specialities, but I made do as a jack of all trades and master of none. I pick things up quickly, and I already have a head start over the others because all this tech came from _my_ world. I may not be an expert in military hardware, but I know how to put the buckles together, how the cleaning tools work, all the little skills that come from immersion over time.

I move around Spitfire, fixing the plates of her armour to the close-fitting bodysuit beneath it. The suit is padded, reinforced somehow with a layer of gel that works with the layers of the armour rather than against them. Only Spitfire, Shamrock, Scrub and Faultline have gone for the full-body suits. Newter’s fast enough to not need them, and their weight would only slow him down. We tried getting some for Labyrinth, but she reacted badly to it. I think the close-fitting plates and straps must have reminded her of some of the restraints she wore in the Asylum. As for Gregor, we’d ordered in custom-made armour to fit around his weight and his shell-like growths, but all this shit kicked off before it arrived.

Emily gasps as I pull one of the straps on her lower back.

“Too tight?” I ask her from where I’m leaning over behind her, making sure the straps are the same length as the ones on the opposite side.

“Yeah,” she replies, fidgeting a little.

“Hold still, would you?” I gently chastise her, carefully loosening the straps a little. “Okay, try moving now.”

She starts running through a routine of stretches and exercises, checking the suit to make sure it has a full range of motion and that it isn’t going to be jostled about by any excessive movements. It’s not powered armour, but it does cover a lot more than the plate carriers and helmets favoured on Earth Bet. It means the parts need to be able to move without impeding each other.

“Any troubles?”

“No, it’s all good,” Emily says as she stands up from a press-up position.

“Great,” I say, “now hold still.”

I kneel down beside her and get to work properly closing the straps and snipping off the excess material with a pair of stout scissors made for the job. Once the straps are closed into the buckles Emily can put on or take off the armour on her own, without needing me to tighten it every time. She holds still as I move up her body, closing every buckle until she’s wearing the complete armour set, minus the helmet.

I reach behind me and pass her the mostly-enclosed piece of headgear. Unlike the ones worn by Faultline and Shamrock, this one exposes her face below her nose in a way similar to a cape’s mask. Scrub is the same, except his ends above the eyes. Otherwise the smoke he constantly emits would gather up inside. He can breathe through it just fine, but it fogs up lenses like condensation.

I step back to admire my handiwork, making sure I’ve not missed anything, before giving two thumbs up to Emily. She immediately starts peeling off the armour plates, setting them back in their metal case. As she does, I look at her face and try to get an idea of how she’s feeling about all this. It’s easier in this body, being the same height as her, but I just can’t read her.

“How are you holding up?” I ask, as my curiosity gets too much.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says as she stretches out on her bunk, not yet bothering to go through the hassle of taking off the underlayer.

“You worried about the fight?” I say, leaning against the bunks opposite her.

“Not really,” she says, before something seems to cross her mind. “No, that’s not quite right. I guess I’m worried about what I might have to do during the fight.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” She sits up a little in her bunk, just barely avoiding hitting her head on the next one up. “Hey, Sonnie…” she trails off. I watch her in silence until she decides to continue. “Do you remember the conversation we had in that warehouse? In Ohio?”

“Yeah,” I shift nervously against the bulkhead, as old shames well up inside me. “I remember.”

“I was so… _scared_ of you,” she says as she lets herself fall backwards, looking up at the bottom of her bunk rather than across at me. It’s okay; I’m not looking at her either.

“For a long time, all I saw when I looked at you was that spike of bone piercing her skull. I used to wake up in a cold sweat, convinced my face was still covered in her blood.”

“I got over it, of course,” she says as she turns to look at me. “It was hard to see you as the monster once you started talking. But I still couldn’t understand how you could do something like that.”

I look away, unable to meet her gaze.

“But then you took us to your world, and I got to see where you came from. We grew up in different worlds, Sonnie, and I understand that, but it’s more than just understanding. Back then, I knew _why_ you did what you did. But it’s one thing entirely to understand it on an intellectual level, it’s another thing entirely to know how that _feels_.”

I lean forwards as she props herself up to look at me.

“Where we’re going… they don’t play by the same rules I’m used to. It’s as different a world to mind as yours was, and that means _I_ need to be different. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if one of you got hurt because I was holding back.”

“I understand,” I say. “And, for what it’s worth, I’m still sorry about what I did.”

“I’m sorry too.”

I nod to her and walk off, quickly letting Faultline know that I’m heading off before moving through the narrow corridors of the ship to the part of the hanger that’s been set aside for the kind of gear we might need in a hurry. Gear like Khanivore.

I spend a few moments just standing in front of the tank before stepping forwards and pressing my palm against the glass. Light flickers across the screen, fanning out into a display that shows the current status of both the tank and its occupant. I can see the exact doses of chemicals being laced into the water, can look at a scan of my own body to check for any imperfections and monitor the flow of blood through my own body to make sure my circulatory system is functioning optimally.

There’s something comfortably familiar about doing things this way; from the outside in. It’s how I used to do things way back when the world still made sense.

“You’ve upgraded,” I hear from behind me, as Blasto and Eve step through a bulkhead door and into the hangar.

“Just the screen and a couple of scanners,” I reply. “We couldn’t make head or tail of your tech.”

“Well I’m glad to know I haven’t lost my touch,” Blasto says as he moves over to the crate next to my tank. The same crate Eve was so carefully escorting when I ran into her.

“What _have_ you got in there? There’s about a dozen of your creatures a couple floors down, so I know it’s not one of those.”

“A game-changer,” Blasto says enigmatically as he pulls off an otherwise unremarkable section of the case to reveal a keypad and a small screen. I lean over to look at the screen and see what looks like a woman’s silhouette before it’s hidden behind Blasto’s back as he thumbs in a code.

The front of the crate unscrews itself with the clanging of deadbolts before swinging open to reveal a tangled mess of different sensor equipment. Hovering in the middle of them, as still as a statue, is a female figure nine feet tall, curled up to fit inside the crate. Her body is brown in colour, alternating between what looks like skin and strange soft feather-like patches. Two wings are curled around her, each the same colour as her skin.

She floats forwards, uncurling herself until she’s hovering upright with her wings splayed out on either side of her. Her face seems set in a stern expression. As I look closer, it seems more like a sculpture of a face than the real deal. Her nostrils don’t go anywhere, her eyes are glassy and cold, and it doesn’t look like her mouth can open. She’s a statuesque beauty, in every sense of the word.

“Well then,” I say as I lean against my tank, “you _have_ been busy.”

“Sonnie,” Blasto says with a shit-eating grin on his face, “meet Morrigan. Morrigan, meet Sonnie.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” a voice emanates from a speaker behind me. She sounds… bubblier than I’d expect from such a stern face.

“Likewise,” I look her in the ‘eyes’ for a brief moment between turning to Blasto. “Sapience?” I ask him. “They’d bloody _love_ back home.”

“Is that genuine or some of that famous British sarcasm? I honestly can’t tell.”

“Eh,” I shrug, my eyes drifting back to the floating… woman? Bioweapon? “Little of column a, little of column b. Eve said you’re an ‘ace up our sleeve’,” I say to the Morrigan, trying to gauge just how sapient she really is.

“It is a decent metaphor,” she answers the question that wasn’t phrased like a question. “I have limited precognition, up to a minute into the future, and extensive telekinesis. My precognition is currently being inhibited by the Irregular Mantellum. It also used to be more powerful, but it was damaged by Behemoth. To regrow the capability completely would require a thousand years, or the services of Phir Sē.”

“Who would ask more than I’m prepared to give,” Blasto interjects.

“Well then,” I say, more than a little shocked, “it sounds like you’ll be a valuable fighter. Welcome aboard. There’s just one thing I need to clear up,” I say, reaching behind me to snatch the speaker out of its socket.

“ _Why_ ,” I fix Blasto with a death-glare, “is she talking out of _my_ speaker?”

“Ah…” Blasto says as he rubs his hand through his hair. “ _That_.”

“Yeah, _that_.”

“You know,” he begins, “I was hoping to talk to you about that, but I’ve been so busy I didn’t have the time.”

“You’ve got time now,” I say, leaning against my tank with my arms crossed.

“You see, Morrigan here was cloned from a Simurgh feather. Now, it’s perfectly safe, I want you to understand that, but my bosses, who are completely technically illiterate, see ‘simurgh feather’ written in one of the reports they get and immediately start to panic. Morrigan’s consciousness needs a functioning human mind to act as a sort of… example for her mind to follow. I’d been using mine, but the bigwigs ordered me to stop that.”

He seems genuinely angry now, his fists clenched together.

“I told them that would mean destroying the Morrigan, they told me that thirty nations are already threatening to sanction India just for _having_ the Morrigan. I couldn’t give her to the Thanda. I mean, I like them, but they’re _insane_.”

He smiles at me, as I scowl back.

“So I thought about the only other person on this planet who has an affinity neuron symbiont in their head, someone who’s a member of a group that’s fucking _built_ around misfits with nowhere else to go. I had Morrigan modify her own DNA so that she was copying your consciousness rather than mine.”

“And _when_ exactly did you do this?”

The sheepish look returns in full force.

“Two days after Behemoth…”

“ _Fucking hell_. Well, I’m not dead yet. That’s _something_.”

“For what it’s worth,” Morrigan speaks up from the speaker, “I was reluctant to make the change. Rey persuaded me it was for the best. Thinking without my precognition is… confusing.”

I lean back, feeling the cold metal on my neck, and drum my fingers on the tank. I look again at Blasto’s latest and probably greatest creation, and think.

“Fuck it. You’re not the weirdest person we’ve recruited.”

“I knew you’d see sense,” Blasto says as he claps me on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to get to know each other!”

He practically jogs out, Eve following behind him and laughing all the way. I look up, then up some more, at the newest member of Palanquin and desperately think about how I’m supposed to break this to the boss.

“What the _fuck_ , Blasto?”

Morrigan’s face twists a little, her stern visage shifting and reshaping itself into a welcoming smile.

I sigh, and smile back.


	111. Predators: 16.04

The lift shudders into life, the sound of the mechanism as it creeps upwards barely audible under the defining weight of noise from the top of the shaft. I fidget awkwardly, stuck briefly between metal walls with nothing to do, even as my heart’s already racing at hundred miles a minute. I’m sharing the lift with a jump jet, a couple of sailors and one of the Irregulars who, like me, is just too big to move through the corridors of the ship. The Irregular, fifteen feet tall and with mottled and mossy green skin, looks nervous as his head crests the top of the lift shaft. I know my own expression as I look up at him is implacable. My mind isn’t here; it’s already in the fight.

That sense of detachment carries on as the lift finally shudders to a stop on the bustling expanse of the flight deck, filled with dozens of sailors in colourful vests as they coordinate the massed amounts of personnel and aircraft. A section of the deck, right next to the tower, has been given over to a steady stream of capes; everyone we brought who’s capable of flight. They rise in a slow stream, while the rest of the deck is absolutely filled with helicopters spinning into life; more mundane transports for the rest of us.

The jump jets are waiting patiently for the helicopters to take off, a whole line of them ready and able to speed down the length of the deck and up the ramp at the end the moment it’s clear. The jet I shared the lift with is wheeled off to join them, while me and the Irregular are waved forwards by a sailor in a green vest.

As he leads us across the flight deck, nimbly dodging and weaving around lanes and boundaries that only he can see, I look out past the ship and over the sea, towards the rest of the taskforce. As I watch, hatches open up across the other ships and missiles start to stream up into the sky, leaving white trails behind them as they fire off into the distance. Straining my eyes, I can just about see black pinpricks at the head of white smoke trails heading the other way, as the city fires on us.

They close in, almost terrifyingly fast, and soon enough pods of smaller missiles across the smaller ships and the carrier are shooting up into the sky, the bustle on the deck not stopping even as the air is briefly filled with smoke. The missiles, their trails looking so narrow when compared to the incoming fire, scream off towards the distant targets. One hits an incoming missile and detonates it instantly, but the rest overshoot.

A moment later they seem to turn on their axis, an impossibly tight manoeuvre that turns straight smoke trails into a complex weave of shapes, as they adjust course and hone in on the missiles. More explosions ring out, the sound arriving long after the actual sight of the blast, but there are still a couple of missiles that slip through the net unscathed, heading straight for the carrier.

I brace myself, even though I know it’s useless, until a winged silhouette rises up in front of the carrier and the missiles swerve off course, jerking erratically until they sail over the carrier and smash into the sea behind us. A cheer goes up from the capes at the sight, but I don’t think the sailors even noticed. Their minds and bodies are focused solely on the logistical madness of the flight deck.

I turn my attention back to the deck as well, as the Irregular clambers into a large helicopter, ducking as much as he can to squeeze his bulk in. It doesn’t look comfortable; unlike me, he’s not built to go on all fours. I turn to my own helicopter, a big fucker with two bulbous cockpits and little stubby wings that are absolutely bristling with weapons pods, and clamber into the tight confines of the passenger space after returning the pilot’s thumbs up.

The very moment my feet leave the deck the rotor blades pick up in intensity and, seconds later, the bulky helicopter is lifting up off the ground and flying out over the sea. It’s a fucking terrifying feeling; I know these guys have probably been flying this thing for years with no issue, but I never really flew in my time and the thought of going up in an aircraft that’s a century out of my date is more than a little unnerving.

It doesn’t help that the troop compartment is small enough that a regular sized person would have to enter bent double. I’m not regular sized, which means I’m practically lying down in this fucking thing. I stick close to the still-open doors; the distant ocean hundreds of meters beneath us might be terrifying, but it’s not as horribly uncomfortable as the claustrophobia of the back of the compartment.

With the doors still open, I have a full view out of either side of the aircraft. I’m sharing the sky with a whole flight of helicopters, some of them other big gunships like mine but most are transport aircraft in a variety of shapes and sizes. All their doors are open, and I catch brief glimpses of capes and soldiers looking out over the water. A fast jet screams overhead, the first of the jump jets taking off from the carrier.

In between the helicopters lone figures are flying. The means of propulsion are many and varied, with some pulling themselves along effortlessly like an old comic book character, others floating on energy shields or telekinetically lifted chunks of metal. One, a Thanda cape, skims off the water, pushing herself off the surface in great leaps of force that send her a hundred meters into the air at a speed that easily matches the helicopters.

I crane my neck out the side of the aircraft, past the Morrigan at the head of our formation, well beyond Mantellum’s range, as she scatters incoming missiles. I can see the city now, squat concrete wave breaks interrupting a long stretch of sandy beaches and distant dense jungle. Mostly I see the immense pillars of smoke rising up from the city, the aftereffects of the cruise missiles the fleet has been shooting towards anything that looks important.

As we draw closer and closer to that city, the occasional volley of missiles flies overhead and yet more smoke rises up from the slowly-growing sprawl. The jump jets are in the air now, distant shapes soaring over the city to make precision hits against smaller targets. The city’s defenders, whoever they may be, aren’t taking it lying down. Rich red beams of energy rise up from a point at the centre of the city, sending one of the shapes crashing down to earth before the remaining jets converge on it. Whether it’s some Tinkertech gun or a cape with a ranged power, they fall silent after another burst of missiles.

But the ships can only carry so much ordinance, and the planes can carry even less. The bombardment falls off as we close within a few kilometres of the city, timed to make sure that none of us end up hit by friendly fire, which means the defenders will come out of their bomb shelters or cellars and start fighting back. We pass over the first of the immense wave breaks, meant to reduce the impact of tsunamis rather than actually stop Leviathan. You can find defences like these in every major coastal city; even Brockton Bay had shield generators, though they’d fallen into disrepair by the time Leviathan actually attacked.

The sea grows further away as my aircraft climbs to make it over the wall. I stick my head out the hatch as we crest the ridge and the first thing that hits me is just how _big_ the city is. The grey shapes I’d seen had been the sea walls, but they’re built around a narrow channel. The city itself is an immense expanse of urban sprawl that stretches out well beyond the channels and lagoons of the coast.

We skim around an immense pillar of black smoke rising up from a destroyed oil refinery and over an immense island of residents, warehouses and ports. All of it in flames, or blasted apart by explosions. I can see a container terminal, a rusted cargo ship listing on its side as it slowly sinks into the harbour. Another one listed the other way, smashing into the cranes on the harbour and sending dozens of containers spilling out over the wide dock.

The transport helicopters start descending, unloading troops and capes into the streets of the city, landing in any open patch of ground they can find. My gunship presses on a little, keeping watch for the other aircraft and firing off rockets into the city itself. I duck my head in as the helicopter starts firing; the pods are set behind the entrance to the troop compartment, and the rockets were passing close enough to my face that I could feel the heat of them on my skin.

The helicopter judders as the air is suddenly filled with deafening cracks. The pilots are firing the nose-mounted machine gun into the streets. Suddenly the whole cabin lurches to the left and I have to dig my claws into the fuselage to stop myself from falling out. The aircraft ducks and weaves, its rotors straining under the unnatural movements. Something’s shooting back.

There’s a terrible noise and a sudden lurching sensation as the helicopter spirals out of control, the force of the impact throwing me out of the door. I’m clinging on by the spiked tendrils I drove into the aircraft, leaning backwards out of the door at the spinning rotors above me. The engine is in flames, great jets of fire shooting out of the exhaust above my head as the whole machine starts to disintegrate. I look left, seeing the twin bulbous cockpits consumed by similar flames, and the trickle of fear I’ve felt since getting into this aircraft becomes a tsunami.

I can’t jump, not without being pureed by the rotor blades, but I can’t stay here either. I pull out three of my tendrils, barely keeping my grip on the aircraft with my talons and the remaining tendril, and bring one back before spearing it upwards, into the rapidly-spinning mechanism beneath the blades itself. The force of it is enough to split the tip off the end of my tail, almost wrenching me along with it. The fragment of bone, caught in the momentum of the rotor blades, jams and shears the mechanism free, and the rotors fly off in a hail of twisted metal.

Without anything keeping it in the air, the helicopter drops like a stone. We’re not far above the ground, fifty meters at most, so I wait just long enough for the blades to fully spin off before pushing myself away from the aircraft. I fall through the air, the ground hurtling towards me, and shift my weight so that I’m falling feet first, my tendrils splayed out beneath me.

I hit the roof of a shoddy-looking building, three spearpoints and a sharp stub of bone piercing through the roof before my talons hit and the whole thing collapses beneath me. The resistance of the roof and my staggered landing slows me down a little, but not nearly enough to stop this from hurting. I smash down into the building itself, tendrils coiling and legs bending to try and dissipate the impact as much as possible. I fall to one side, taking the rest of the impact on the better-armoured segments on my back. It still breaks bones, a dull retort of cracks rippling through my body, all down my left side.

Before I’ve even stood up, specialist cells and tendons have crept along the bones, setting them in place like a splint. It’s not as good as the real thing, but it’ll do. I could maybe have doped myself up, used a bit of slo-mo to react just that little bit faster, but this isn’t a five-minute cage fight. This is going to be a slog, and I can’t afford to spend it twitching with withdrawal symptoms.

So I pull myself to my feet, as soon as I’m sure I can do it without collapsing. It looks like I’ve landed in a bar, with cheap wooden furniture and the remains of half a ceiling fan still futilely trying to spin. The place is empty, the regulars all having either run away or joined the fight outside. Judging by how half the posters on the wall are for tactical gear or different mercenary companies, I’m assuming the latter.

Speaking of, I can hear people shouting outside. They’re talking in French, I assume, which means I can’t understand a fucking word of it, but that’s okay. I get their intent, and I’m not going to give them the chance. The walls of this place are built from old and tired cinderblocks, and they’re already weak from my landing. I throw my weight against them and the whole wall collapses out into the street, sending a squad of soldiers stumbling backwards.

I pace through the hole on all fours, lashing out at the closest soldiers to me before rushing behind a parked truck as their comrades on the other side of the street start shooting. They don’t look like proper soldiers; they’re dressed in whatever they could find, carrying a mismatched variety of different weapons, and lacking the coordination of Coil’s mercs. I think they’re local militia; the armed followers of one warlord or another. But they’re still a threat; the moment they decide to surround me from both sides I’m fucked.

I can’t stay pinned here; it’s not in my nature. Khanivore isn’t a defensive creature, I don’t tank blows or weather the storm. I strike, so hard and so fast that the bastards have no idea what hit them.

I spring up onto the roof of the truck, using it as a vantage point to leap into the nearest group of militia. They go down screaming, but I hardly see them. There’s another cluster a little further down the street, and I only have eyes for them. They’re hesitating, unwilling to shoot into the bleeding and broken remains of their comrades, and I exploit that hesitation to wrap my tendrils around one end of a car and lift it up, leaving me with an armoured shield resting on the ground in front of me.

Just like I did in Arizona, I push the car forwards along the road, using it to shield me from the worst of the enemy’s fire. They fire shot after shot into the car, some of them piercing through the cheap metal and narrowly missing me, or skilling off plates of bone. Two shots pierce the patch of weaker flesh on my abdomen, but I pay them no mind. They missed my spines, and there’s not much else of value down there.

Unlike in Arizona, there are no camera crews I can use to judge how close I am to the bastards. Instead, I use the direction of the incoming bullets and wait until the shooting stops before flipping the ruined car over and pouncing forwards. I’d got close enough for them to turn and run, and it’s the work of a moment to chase them down, driving tendrils into their backs.

Pretty soon the street is quiet, even if the rest of the city is still filled with crackling gunfire and the strange sounds of powers going off. In the distance, I can see another gunship firing into the city below, and a pair of flying capes duelling in the sky, one with his bare fists and the other, an Irregular, with incandescent laser beams. The militia must have seen me fall and come here in the truck to make sure I was dead, or to finish me off if I wasn’t.

I start to lope down the street, heading for the closest and loudest gunshots, only to falter as an armoured figure sprints across the intersection in front of me, slowing to a stop as he spots me. He’s dressed from head to toe in gunmetal grey power armour, with a skull-shaped helmet over his head. There’s a long spear in his right hand, longer than he is tall, the end of it glowing with unnatural red energies. The eye sockets of his mask twitch a little, hidden technologies working beneath the crude exterior, as he looks from the slaughtered militia to me.

I start to shift my weight, moving cautiously and ready to react to any move he makes. I understand beasties and I understand people, but capes are unpredictable. The spear is an obvious threat, but there’s not really any way to tell exactly what it does. That’s why, when he sprints towards me, I respond by leaping out of the way and dragging the sharpened end of my tail across his gut. I leap back as he turns and see the narrow gash along the joint between two armour plates. I got through the flexible outer layer, but there’s something beneath it that stopped the blade from going further.

I circle him, launching probing attacks to judge the flexibility of his armour’s joints, the reach of his spear and how skilled he is at using it. But while I’m learning everything that matters about him, he’s learning about me as well. I want him on the defensive, but he doesn’t give me a chance, leaping forwards as the servos of his armour squeal in protest and reaching forwards with the spear in an attempt to skewer me.

I narrowly dodge the blow, curling a tail around the spear in an attempt to wrench it from his grasp before being forced to release it as the Tinker slashes at me with a blade built into the gauntlet of his armour. He ducks back as I sweep my claws at his throat, slashing the length of my arm with one gauntlet blade before leaping back from my counterattack.

I feint, making him think I’m going for a claw slash while bringing my tendrils down from above, but he spots the trick and ducks back, slashing at me with his spear. It’s too close to dodge, so I bring up a tendril to catch the blade on the bone. Instead, I feel a burst of white-hot feedback through my nervous system as the long blade at the tip of the spear cleaves right through my tendril, taking off the last third of its length.

I dart back, bringing the bleeding stump up into view out of disbelief before consciously cutting off the flow of blood. There wasn’t even the slightest bit of resistance as it cut through cartilage, muscle and bone. It moved through them as easily as it moved through _air_.

I can’t let him keep that weapon, no matter the cost.

He’s expecting me to pull back, to panic and withdraw, but that’s not my nature. After so long in pit fight after pit fight, there’s only one response to threats in my mind. I’ve had to suppress it ever since I came here, didn’t need it in the bizarre cape culture of North America. I didn’t need it while Palanquin had my back, but I do need it now.

If there’s one lesson I took from the pit, it’s that when your back is against the wall and everything’s going to shit the only thing you can do is _double down_.

I charge in and, as expected, he brings his spear up to stop me. I duck beneath his blow, letting the shaft of the spear skitter along an armoured plate even as I wrap it tightly in a tendril. As before, the smaller blade slips free from his gauntlet, but this time I don’t duck away from it. I let the bastard stab me, right in my gut, and I leverage the momentum of his thrust to force him down onto his knees.

The jarring impact stuns him for a moment, a fraction of a second’s pause, and I use that narrow window of opportunity to drive a tendril through the break in his armour around his elbow, where solid metal plates gives way to more flexible material. He screams at the sensation and his grip on the spear loosens in an instant. I twist my tendril, turning the spear and driving it through his shoulder, down through his chest and into the ground.

It burns everything it touches, cooking him inside his armour until it bursts into flames. I bring myself up to my full height and reach into the flames to pull out the spear, flipping it over again and driving the butt of the weapon into the ground. I press my palm against the stab wound until it’s clotted and closed enough that I’m not going to bleed to death and take a moment to look over the rooftops at the distant fighting.

“You still with us?” I ask the air.

“I’m still here, Khanivore,” the Morrigan answers through my voicebox. “I am engaging a telekinetic a kilometre and a half from your position.”

I start to walk forwards, the tinkertech spear held out in front of me.

“I need to get to Faultline. Any chance of directions?”


	112. Predators: 16.05

Dust fills the street, clawing its way into my every breath. Something must have passed through here to kick it all up. Might be a passing shell, some cape power or even a flying cape. Either way, the result is the same. I can feel the little grains of sand or dirt scraping their way through my lungs, a minor irritation that I won’t be able to shake for hours. For all that I’ve come to love this body, it sure does have its limitations.

I blink away a speck that’s gotten caught in the corner of my eye. Some long dormant human reflex has me bringing my finger up to try and flick it out, before I hurriedly pull it back. Claws, remember?

I stride confidently through the streets, even though I can only see a few meters in front of my face, walking on two legs with my two remaining lethal tendrils jutting out in front of my head and the cape’s fancy spear held in one hand. If anyone comes a-calling, I’ll be ready for them.

I keep getting fooled by shapes inside the sandstorm, little silhouettes of random shapes or even just my own mind finding people where there are none. I can hear gunfire and explosions all around me, even if it is a little muffled by the dust. If Morrigan hadn’t pointed me in the right direction, I could have ended up wandering circles, not even knowing which way is up.

Some of the gunfire is getting closer now, and some of the shapes are looking a lot less like figments of my imagination and more like people. Armed people. The question is whether they’re our armed people, or the enemy’s. Common sense would have me duck away and sneak up on them until I’m sure, but it’s a little too late for that. Ahead of me, a patch of dust has lessened for a moment, revealing a much clearer silhouette.

They’ve seen me; they’re frozen with their gun raised as they try to make sense of my own silhouette. If I try to duck away now, they’d just assume the worst and shoot. I tighten my grip on the spear, just in case.

The shape takes a half-step forwards before dropping to one knee, taking aim, and shouting something in Punjabi. Thank fuck, but that just presents a different problem; I don’t speak Punjabi.

“Palanquin!” I shout into the dust, hoping that’ll be enough to get past any language barriers. Sure enough, the silhouette starts to approach, raising their weapon so the barrel is pointing skywards. It’s less threatening, but it can still drop right back down to shoot me if the Indian needs to. As he gets closer, it becomes clear that he’s with the Thanda, not the military. He’s dressed like the rest of them, in black fatigues with a black shemagh wrapped around his face and black ammunition pouches. No way to tell if he’s one of the powered members, of course.

Once he can see me properly, maybe recognising me from the carrier, he simply nods and turns back. I push past him, reaching back to curl my point-less tendril around the spear so I can drop to all fours. I start to see more groups of Thanda soldiers, all huddling in the first floor of buildings or behind cars like they’re waiting for something. Down at the other end of the street I can hear automatic fire and the crack of sniper rifles, but right here it’s dead quiet. The Thanda aren’t making any noise at all.

A sniper and her spotter emerge onto the roof of a building in front of me, both of them carrying long-barrelled rifles with simple scopes. There’s no way they can see through the dust cloud, which is a point in favour of this being the effect of some sort of power. In front of me, a lone Thanda soldier is moving down the length of a whole platoon of them. As he passes each masked soldier, they bow their heads out of respect.

Looking at the guy, he’s wearing a high-tech looking vest covered in wires and what looks like metal plates. One of the Thanda capes, maybe. It’s definitely tinkertech. He reaches the head of the platoon, where a man in the same fatigues as the rest gets up from where he’d been kneeling behind a car to touch foreheads with the guy. The platoon leader, assuming that’s who he is, unclips a radio from his uniform and speaks briefly into it before ducking back behind the cover of the car.

Immediately, a storm of fire starts up as unseen soldiers unload hundreds of rounds at unseen targets. The lone Thanda soldier sprints off down the street, not caring about the storm of gunfire going off around him. The soldiers around me start to stir: hands tighten their grips on rifles, men start to look around furtively and a barely perceptible eagerness passes down the length of the whole platoon.

Then the whole dust cloud lights up as an explosion of baleful green fire consumes the end of the street. A shockwave passes, one that would have bowled me over if I hadn’t dug my talons and tendrils into the ground in time. The dust cloud is instantly dissipated, whether by the sheer force of the blast or the cape creating it, and, as one, the Thanda soldiers rise and charge down the street, still utterly silent. The capes start to show themselves, leaping out of the crowd onto rooftops, taking flight, or simply slinging their weapons and charging in with bare fists.

In moments I’m alone again, with only the snipers on the roof above for company. I can hear the Thanda fighting and dying off in the distance, but that’s not my fight. Truth be told, the whole thing makes me uneasy. I’m not so blind that I can’t see what that was, what that man _did_. How fanatical must these people be to be willing to kill themselves to avenge an insult to their _organisation_? And what sort of Tinker makes bomb vests?

I pace away from the fanatics, ducking through alleyway after narrow alleyway as I move from the industrial part of the city to some real urban sprawl; the sort of slum that develops when the demand for buildings far outweighs the supplies needed to build them. It’s a shantytown in every sense of the word, one that’s grown over decades without any government to regulate it.

Sometimes I take the streets, such as they are, other times I’ll clamber up onto the rooftops or along walkways and through buildings that groan underneath my weight. The sheer madness of the layered shacks and tenements does strange things to the sounds of the fight, distorting and funnelling them through the irregular architecture.

I start to see people too, on the edge of my sight. This isn’t just some military fortress; it’s a city. With how fast we hit this place, there’s no way the locals could have evacuated and I highly doubt the warlords would let them. No ruler that values their subjects would let them live in a place like this.

Not that we value them either. They’re scared of me; crawling underneath their beds and running the moment they think I can’t see them. They’ve got every right to be scared of me. Weld might say that we’re here to save these people, that by dealing a blow to the warlords we might be able to help them find their own way in life, but it’s bullshit.

We’re not here to save these people; we’re tearing their city apart, gunning down their protectors in the streets. If we’re here to save anyone it’s Cauldron’s subjects but, even then, that only applies to Palanquin and the Irregulars. The military are here because they want an army, while the Thanda are here for revenge and slighted honour. These people… they’re just in our way.

I leave the slums as quickly as I can. I don’t know if the fighting has overlooked them, but I do know they won’t stay untouched forever. The last thing I want is for one of them to make a call to the locals, and turn their scant sanctuary into just another battlefield. I can feel dozens of eyes watching me as I go.

I start to see more and more signs of fighting: a pair of Irregulars leaping from rooftop to rooftop, one held in the others arms; a group of Indian soldiers huddled in the bombed-out front of a shop, tying a tourniquet around a comrade’s legs; a Thanda cape who listens to coordinates through his radio before looking up at a tall office block, one of the tallest in the city.

The building disappears in an instant, cleaved from the landscape like Scrub’s power on an unimaginable scale.

No, not like Scrub at all. A projectile is falling through the sky, burning with the heat of re-entry. It hits the distant city with a blow that sends shockwaves through the earth, collapsing a weak building next to me. I can only imagine what the devastation looks like at the centre of the blast, or the effect it had on the fragile slums.

It’s the only artillery we have, now that the ships are all out of missiles, but it sure is devastating. The Thanda cape wanders off, no doubt looking for another sturdy building to turn into a kinetic rod. I simply press on, passing more groups, until I hear a familiar voice come through my radio.

“-that blast did a number on the city centre, but the bridges are still intact.”

“Understood, Newter,” Faultline replies, like she’s discussing the weather.

Our radios are just about the only piece of equipment we weren’t able to replace on Earth One. All the models we could find were linked into satellite networks that simply don’t exist on Earth Bet. It wouldn’t have been a problem if everything went as planned, but my helicopter spun out pretty far as it went down, putting me out of range.

“Boss, am I glad to hear you,” I speak once I’m sure I won’t be interrupting anything valuable.

“Sonnie?” Faultline exclaims, her usual tone brimming with surprise and relief. “I saw your helicopter go down.”

“Jumped out, boss. I had Morrigan point me towards you.”

“Glad to hear you’re alright. We’ll wait for you outside the Légion étrangère recruitment office. It’s the building with the French flag flying over it. We can’t wait long,” she says distractedly, “the situation is deteriorating rapidly.”

“Understood, boss,” I reply, already clambering up the nearest building. A few hundred meters away I can see the building they’re talking about; a large office block with a mural down one side depicting sharply-dressed soldiers in white hats, with a French flag flying from the roof. “I’m about a minute out from you.”

I leap from rooftop to rooftop, shifting unsteadily whenever I cross a section of roof that was weakened by the Thanda’s kinetic strike. A couple of bullets ricochet around me, as snipers take opportunistic pot-shots, but only one of them actually manages to land a hit and, even then, the bullet just deflects off my natural armour.

Sure enough, less than a minute later I drop down to find the legion etranger building slowly being shifted into a concrete bunker surrounded by a shifting hedge of twisted razor wire. Another one of Labyrinth’s worlds; one born from the chaos of senseless and endless war.

It shifts as I approach, the wire curling back and the concrete turning into dust and crumbling away, leaving a lattice of iron bars that bend outwards. Palanquin steps out of the building, every last one of them. I feel a weight I didn’t know I’d been carrying fall from my shoulders at the sight of them. They’re battered and coated in a layer of dust, grime and, in Faultline, Scrub and Shamrock’s case, blood, but none of them are injured.

“Christ, Sonnie,” Spitfire exclaims, “what happened to you?”

Nobody injured except _me_.

“Nothing I can’t handle. Even got this sweet spear out of the deal.”

“You’re fit to fight,” Faultline asks, blunt. I simply nod in return.

“Good. We need to move.” She starts to jog down the street, the rest of us falling into formation around her. Faultline starts talking through our comms, filling me in on the situation.

“There are six major PMCs in Abidjan. Foreign, parahuman-led, mercenary armies hired on to protect the city, or renting the use of its port as a staging ground for operations further inland. Two of them had their barracks close to the port and were wiped out in the bombardment. The remaining four are starting to arrive on the battlefield and they just rolled tanks over the two bridges connecting this island to the mainland.”

“The spear might help with that, boss,” I reply. “It cut through tinkertech armour like it wasn’t even there. Might work on tanks too.”

“Then you’re with me,” she says, bluntly. “Newter will target any enemy capes, Shamrock, Scrub and Spitfire will handle the supporting infantry while Gregor protects Labyrinth.”

“Roger that,” I say, breathing heavily in anticipation. We move deeper into the city, the sounds of fighting growing louder and louder. Periodically, Newter will radio in with descriptions of routes he’s found, or the locations of friendly and enemy forces. Faultline listens in, all the while keeping one ear on the longer-range radio she’s wearing on her back, one that’s connected to the other senior personnel.

Newter returns and pulls us off the street, leading us through the backrooms of businesses and homes on an indirect route that should bring us up to a tank. He stops in a nondescript office, simply pointing to a wall and standing aside. None of us have spoken since we left the road. None of us are willing to risk losing the element of surprise.

Faultline steps forwards, bringing her right arm up and flexing her fingers in a moment of silent contemplation before her forearm splits along the seams as a blade emerges, splitting and lengthening until she’s left with a length of polyp that’s twice as long as her forearm. With her power, she can use it to cut through anything inorganic. The last half of it is a sharp blade, to deal with anything else.

An identical blade springs out of her left arm. After all, why just settle for one?

She looks around, making sure we’re all ready, before sprinting at the wall. It disintegrates around her, and I smash through the rest, briefly blinking away the sudden sun before setting my sights on the bulky armoured vehicle in front of me, its turret and cameras pointed down the road.

It can’t see us, but the soldiers behind it can. These aren’t the militia I fought before; they’re professionals, with uniforms and body armour, but they’re driven back all the same as Shamrock lets loose with her rifle. I ignore her, instead moving ahead of Faultline and placing a hand in front of her to give her a leg up onto the back of the tank.

She cuts through the barrel with a single swipe, the mass of metal dropping like a stone, before stepping up onto the turret and slicing open the hatch, using a blade to skewer the crewman within. As I drive my spear through the front of the tank, into where I think the driver is, Faultline collapses her left arm mods and drops a primed grenade into the hatch, leaping off the tank before it’s shaken by a blast of concussive force.

I follow her off, only to freeze at the sight of another tank a few hundred meters down the road, its turret swivelling around to face us.

For a moment I think it’s all over, until the tank suddenly disintegrates before our eyes, split into its component parts in a single wrenching motion that entirely pulps the crew. The metal armoured plates float upwards to orbit the avian figure now floating over the street, the Morrigan looking off into the distance. More parts of the tank fly upwards, shells hovering high in the air for a moment before being flung into the city with pinpoint accuracy. The force of so many simultaneous explosions is enough to send tremors through the ground and into my bones.

We follow the Morrigan as she advances, gradually being joined by more and more soldiers and parahumans as we push back the mercenaries. Pretty soon we’re at the edge of the island, huddling behind buildings and makeshift barricades as we look out across the expansive stretch of water that separates us from the rest of the city. Gradually, the tide begins to shift again, as more tanks start to appear on the other bank, firing shell after shell into our lines. I see a couple of Indian soldiers returning fire with rocket launchers, and a couple of capes doing the same with powers, but it’s simply not enough to match the weight of fire a whole city can put out.

Faultline is deep in conversation with an Indian Colonel, Weld and Phir Sē listening in over the radio while Blasto, armoured from head to toe in a bioorganic suit, listens in.

“We might be able to seize the other bank,” the Colonel says, uncertainly.

“We might,” Faultline agrees, “but it would cost too much. We didn’t come here to get bogged down in an African war.”

“We can’t hold a staging point while those tanks are still shelling us,” Blasto points out.

“So we don’t,” Faultline replies. “We cut our losses and focus on bringing as much men and material through the portal as we can. Then we shift it away from Bet.”

There’s a moment of quiet, as someone talks to them over the radio.

“Alright,” the Colonel says in agreement to something I can’t hear. “We’ll launch a fighting withdrawal. Faultline, have your team get started on the portal while the Morrigan destroys Charles-de-Gaulle bridge. Phir Sē, have your artillery cape launch an indiscriminate bombardment of the other side of the river. Keep their heads down for as long as you can. Everyone else, stagger your withdrawal from the waterfront and towards the portal. At the last possible moment, we open the way and charge through as one.”

Faultline nods in agreement, and pretty soon the Morrigan is soaring away in one direction while the rest of us head back to the centre of the docklands. We scout out a suitable place and have Labyrinth start spreading her influence out through the area, creating a wider tower than any we’ve made before. She layers on the detail, adding ornamentation after ornamentation until the structure is completely solid. Then we wait, as the ring of friendly forces slowly closes around us until almost everybody is in sight of the tower.

The enemy don’t interfere, pinned down by a continuous volley of kinetic strikes that are slowly shaking the city apart. Pretty soon our vanguard is ready to head through the portal. I place myself right at the front, next to the Brutes and the Strikers. A monster among men.

Scrub steps forwards, his power flickering. It catches the edge of the tower and the whole thing goes up, creating a blinding white hole into the void between worlds, or whatever that null-space is. Labyrinth moves up again, Faultline’s hand on her shoulder, and I go to stand beside her.

“Remember, Elle, you’ve found this place before,” I tell her. “In Brockton Bay. The borders between it and this one were weak, and there were ruins on the other side of the portal.”

“I’ve… I’ve found it,” Elle says, her voice sounding more distant than she ever has before. “ _I’ve found it_ ,” she repeats, a little more firmly this time.

“Then open the way,” Faultline says, looking up at the void.

The void shifts, colours spiralling into place as Labyrinth pulls on another world, tethering it to this one. Around me, parahumans and soldiers shift uneasily. We’re standing on the edge of the great unknown, with no idea what’s waiting for us on the other side. But we’ve come too far to turn back now. Even if we wanted to; we don’t have the strength to fight a whole city.

The portal shifts into place, and I’m moving before I’ve even seen what’s on the other side. My mind is focused purely on putting one foot in front of the other, on forcing myself to run towards danger in spite of every instinct screaming at me to stop. I run, until the concrete road beneath my feet is replaced by a strangely spongy surface that sticks to my claws a little. Only then, do I look up.

Flesh. A mass of flesh, filling a cavernous room like an erupting volcano, frozen in the midst of exploding waves. Mismatched limbs rise out of the mass, frozen in outstretched poses, like they’re trying to claw their hold onto the world. In places the unity of it all breaks down, muscle, skin and bone existing separately or fracturing even further into pure shards of impossible geometry. There’s a pattern amongst the horror, a sense of something incomplete, something frozen in the very act of clawing itself together.

The flesh is grey, inert, _dead_ , but its sheer size is terrifying. The whole… _entity_ is held in a cavernous chamber, maybe a kilometre square and eighty metres high, with parts of it stretching all the way up to the ceiling. The room is lit only by great lights suspended from the distant ceiling, casting deep shadows as the mass bends it in ways light simply shouldn’t go. I can just about make out gantries running above the lights, distant signs of humanity in a deeply inhuman place.

Others sprint in with me, each one of them struck by the sight in front of them. Some of them look at it like they’ve stumbled into heaven, like the mass in front of them is the most beautiful thing they’ve ever seen. Faultline is struck dumb, her hands slack by her sides as she looks up.

Others are horrified, stumbling around and muttering to themselves that they’ve seen this before, that they’ve forgotten, that this is _wrong_ , that it _shouldn’t be_. Newter is bent double, throwing up with a nauseated look on his face. There are others like him, in fact every Case-53 seems horrified, while the ‘natural’ capes are enraptured.

I find my mind drawn back to that night on the roof over the Merchant’s shopping centre, when Scrub triggered and Labyrinth pulled… _something_ through. Was this it? Was this what she saw?

Blasto said that powers work through an affinity link of sorts, that there has to be something on the other side to provide the energy to let men fly, to let them think faster than they should, to shoot esoteric energy from their very hands. Maybe this is the other side of the symbiont, the thing that makes the impossible possible.

What do you call something that does that? Have Cauldron killed a God? Imprisoned its body and stolen its power for themselves?

I’m so caught up in the… _enormity_ of it that I almost don’t spot him. He’s drifting between flesh-mounds, dressed in a hooded cape over a skin-tight green and white costume, an opaque mask over his face that glows with an ethereal light.

He raises a hand, and I barely have time to shout out a warning.

“Incoming!”


	113. Predators: 16.06

Panic creeps through the crowd at my shout, tearing them from the creature surrounding us and forcing their minds towards an incoming threat. Cries start to rise up, shields and barriers being hastily placed in between us and the green-clad hero.

The man himself doesn’t seem to care; he just drifts forwards, his featureless mask dripping with contempt as he looks down on us from above. There are dozens of capes arrayed against him, to say nothing of the Thanda and military soldiers, and Blasto’s pet servitors, and he doesn’t even care. We don’t even register as a threat.

He raises his palm, but I’m already moving. I curl my tendril around Labyrinth, hoisting her up as I flee. A beam of heat shoots out of his hand, impacting the ground ahead of the ever-growing wall of shields, metal, wood and any number of other power-created barriers. Eidolon raises his arm, almost lazily, and the beam slices through our defences like they aren’t even there, bisecting four capes on the wall and another six behind it.

People start to return fire, bullets and lasers and esoteric projectiles filling the sky around the cape, but he seems to shimmer slightly and phase partially out of existence, as the myriad powers simply pass through him. He phases back in long enough to send another beam of pure light clawing through our ranks, this one carving through two of Blasto’s Cyclops, which keep firing even after they’re bisected, before the beam plays across the portal back to Earth Bet.

Where it touches the portal, it leaves a blinding white line, the same white as the void that appeared before Labyrinth dialled in the portal to this world. There’s a pregnant pause, a moment of near-total silence, before the white gash spreads to consume the portal. It starts to shake and simmer, before colliding in on itself in an implosion that sucks in air from across the chamber. One Thanda soldier, close to the portal, is drawn in and consumed in an instant by the white spot, compressed down into a pinprick.

And then, it flickers with built up energy. I’m already running, leaping over a mound of flesh and tumbling down into a short canyon, its walls covered in grasping hands. Others, seeing the same thing I did, follow me down. There’s an incredibly bright flash of light, followed by a blast of concussive force that hits the top of the chasm like a wave, burying us beneath a cascade of twisted flesh.

I don’t spend long smothered by the mass. Within seconds, the mound of flesh is twisting and receding into stonework, as Labyrinth’s power rearranges the landscape around us. At my prompting, she stretches her tunnel along the length of what was the chasm, freeing capes and soldiers from suffocation. Some of them weren’t so lucky, either dying from the force of the blast or suffocating beneath the mass.

They’re panicked, worried, staring at the stone walls and flickering green torches with apprehension clear to see. Half of them don’t even speak English. Some of them look like they’re about ready to start tearing into the walls in a bid to dig out of here. I ignore them and turn to Labyrinth.

“I need you to make us a tunnel out of here, okay? Away from where Eidolon was, but close enough that we can get these people back into the fight.”

“Okay,” she replies before turning to face the wall, seemingly forgetting about me. The wall starts to shift, expanding outwards as a hole opens up in the neatly-made crypt stonework to reveal a wide tunnel of bare earth, supported by wooden ceiling beams and lit by covered lanterns. A genuine secret passage.

The passage starts to expand, and I follow Labyrinth as she walks up its gentle incline. Her range is spreading, but we’re moving fast enough that some of the crypt behind us starts to fail. I only know because of the hurried shouts of the other people, only some of whom have decided to follow us.

I sigh.

“Right!” I shout down the tunnel. “We’re making a way out of here! Everyone into the tunnel; anyone who can shoot hard or take a hit head right up to the front! Pass the message down!”

Honestly, shouldn’t someone else be handling this? It really isn’t my style.

At least they listen, and pretty soon me and Elle are surrounded on both sides by capes and soldiers as we steadily ascend. It doesn’t take long for us to surface, less than a minute or so, but already the sounds of the battlefield have started to change. The capes around us start to sprint out into the open, the soldiers moving more hesitantly. That is, until a bright beam carves a deep furrow through the tunnel, leaving a line of bisected bodies along its entire length.

Eidolon’s spotted us.

I pick Labyrinth up in my tendril again and sprint down the tunnel, as it shifts and changes into something altogether stronger. Not that it matters, though; two more of Eidolon’s blast scour through the tunnel at oblique angles, regardless of any reinforcement in place. The white core at the centre of the beams, and the explosive effect it had on the portal, make me wonder if this is something like Scrub’s power; shunting things between dimensions rather than actually cutting them.

I stagger into the electronic light of the flesh-garden, only to find Eidolon’s attention drawn elsewhere. He’s facing off against Morrigan as she batters him with chunks of armour plate still scored and battered from their use in the battle. They’re useless against those beams, of course, so she’s switched to using them offensively. She drives them into Eidolon, and I notice he’s stopped phasing. Instead, he’s hurriedly generating hexagonal panes of solid light in the air, a shield network intercepting each blow.

He returns fire, incandescent beams slicing through the Morrigan. Most pass through her body without any obvious effect, but shots aimed at her chest will sometimes not emerge from the other side. Those shots prompt a desperate reaction from Morrigan, as she switches from focusing purely on offence to moving erratically around Eidolon, trying to keep out of reach of his blasts all while maintaining his attack.

He fires again, clipping her heel with a shot that continues uninterrupted down into the mountain of flesh. Suddenly, and utterly without warning, the flesh bulges in on itself, exactly where the shot struck, before bursting outwards in a shower of gore as another explosion of concussive force rips the earth apart. Did his shot hit a portal _inside_ the mass of flesh? Are we standing on a fucking _minefield_?

There’s Faultline, using a mound of bare muscle tissue as cover. She’ll make sense of this clusterfuck. I bound over to her, setting Labyrinth down as I hunker down beside her. The boss has her blades out, but I think it’s more to reassure herself than any practical use.

“Sonnie,” she says, forgetting for a moment the cape-talk she’s worked so hard to instil in us all, “you’re alive.”

“For now. Situation’s fucked, boss. _Please_ tell me you have a plan?”

“You can’t plan around Eidolon,” she says, shaking her head. “His power is randomised, ever-changing. We deploy a countermeasure against one of his powers, he’ll just switch it out for another one. There’s no obvious way to beat him, unless we get lucky.”

She sounds bitter, _defeated_. She prides herself on overcoming every obstacle, every challenge, in spite of her comparatively weak power. But Eidolon isn’t someone she can outthink. If human ingenuity can’t solve this, maybe we need to find a power that can…

“What about Morrigan?” I ask. “A minute’s worth of future-sight, but if we can get enough variables in place it might be long enough for a solution.”

“My precognition is currently blocked by Mantellum,” the woman herself chimes in through my voice-box. “I…” she pauses, a strangely human gesture, “I do not know how much longer I can stand these blasts. They are doing significant damage to my core.”

“Two priorities, then,” Faultline says as she peeks over out makeshift and probably useless cover. She doesn’t quite sound like she’s back in full master-strategist mode, but she’s close enough to count.

“First, drawing Eidolon away from Mantellum. Second, forcing him to drop the lasers for a different power.”

She fiddles for a few moments with her backpack radio before speaking again.

“Faultline to all callsigns,” I hear her words repeated in stereo through my own radio, “anyone capable of it needs to close in on Eidolon. Get as close as possible; we need to get him to drop the lasers. Drive him further into the chamber.”

A scattered echo of acknowledgments sounds through the channel, the only people answering being the ones who aren’t too busy trying to stay alive. Still, everyone heard it, and hopefully that means they got the message. I pull myself to my feet, tightening my grip on the tinkertech spear in my hand, only to feel Faultline’s hand on one of my tendrils.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to climb up to the gantries above the lights,” I say matter-of-factly. “This spear cuts through tanks; maybe it can hurt him. If not, at least I’ll be a good distraction.”

“There are others, Sonnie. People who-”

People who are better suited to it than me? Flyers? Movers? Capes?

“I can’t do nothing, boss. It’s not my nature. Not yours, either. We have the same response in situations like this, when everything’s stacked against us. We double down.”

She doesn’t say anything, but she lets go of my tendril. I nod gratefully and mount over the mound of muscle, sprinting across flesh that digs at my claws like no surface I’ve ever run across before. I don’t head for Eidolon, who’s started to slowly become swarmed by dozens of flying and jumping capes, instead making for a tall mass of flesh dotted in outstretched arms that range in size from that of a normal human to as big as my entire body.

They’re fragile, but each is anchored onto a sheet of stout muscle. I brush them aside, each one coming apart far easier than it should and fracturing like crystal as I brush them aside, ignoring them as I climb up. This place is enormous, impossible, but that’s not important right now. It’s just like any other pit; the only thing that matters is me and the bastard trying to kill me.

Once I’m at the top of the mound, a short leap has me on the gantries that run along the lights that line the ceiling, bathing the corpse in a harsh electric glow. From up here, I can see the whole chamber. It’s easily a kilometre across, maybe as much as two, and much, much, longer. I can see the flesh rising and falling in waves around a central point I can’t quite make out. Some of it disappears in odd ways, no doubt passing through portals into other dimensions that contain yet more of this strange flesh.

I start to run, dismissing the view as my mind focuses in on the capes clustered around a single figure as he ducks and weaves among them. Eidolon is firing his beams indiscriminately now, slicing through capes and flesh alike. I see another immense detonation in the distance, as Eidolon’s beam strikes another portal, while a second beam carves through one of the immense steel pillars that holds up the ceiling, driven through the flesh like a spear. It wavers and falls, being immediately seized and disassembled by Morrigan into an arsenal of spears, even as the chamber is suddenly filled with groaning metal as the ceiling adjusts to the new balance.

I run towards it all, in spite of every instinct telling me to flee. The gantry shifts and wobbles beneath my feet, unused to dealing with something of my weight, but I don’t care. My mind is on the fight. As I draw closer, it’s like the other capes stop existing as capes. I reduce them down to angles and vectors, obstacles I need to work around to reach my target. The spear in my hand becomes all I can focus on, even as a quartet of Blasto’s Cyclops perch briefly on the railing to fire a salvo of bullets into the enemy.

And yet, I can see the pattern behind it all. Slowly but surely, Eidolon is being surrounded by a sphere of threats. His hexagonal shields are just about keeping up with us, but it’s clear they can’t cover all of him at once. Offensively, his devastating lasers have become more of a hindrance than a benefit. Their firing arc is restrictive, subject to the limits of his arms and his reaction speeds. We’ve found the counter to his powers, which means he’ll be forced to switch it up a little.

He flies upwards, putting his back towards the ceiling and looking down on his attackers. Maybe he could salvage his blind spot if I wasn’t up here, moving along the gantries behind him. Maybe he didn’t spot me; with all the lights pointing down, he might not have been able to see these walkways from down there.

The spear in my hand feels less like a reassurance and more like a feasible option now. It cut through a tank like it was nothing; maybe it can make it through his shield?

I don’t get the chance to find out. Eidolon flies backwards again, behind the lights until he’s level with me. He could fire, but he hasn’t. His posture’s changed too; he always looked confident, but now that faint edge of uncertainty in his stance has gone.

Immediately I leap off the walkway, kicking my feet against it to send me downwards even faster. Some of the other capes saw the same thing I did, or just followed my lead, and I’m grateful to spot Newter is one of them. The rest close in, looking to exploit Eidolon’s apparent weakness.

It’s a fatal mistake.

Electricity crackles out of Eidolon’s body, forming the boundaries of a perfect sphere like one of those static globes they have in science museums. The capes who closed in start to turn, but it’s too late. The whole sphere lights up with a storm of electricity that first burns, then vaporises them. Half a dozen parahumans, lost in a single blow.

I get caught right on the edge of the sphere, spending barely a fraction of a second in it before falling through. It’s enough to set my every neuron on fire as electricity courses through my body, enough to peel skin from my flesh. I’m temporarily paralysed, and fifty metres above the ground. This won’t be pleasant.

My fall ends sooner than I thought. Not soon enough to stop microfractures from forming, but enough that I don’t break any bones. As I regain control of my limbs, I haul myself to my feet to see that I’m standing on a long steel pillar that’s been moved to abort my fall with miraculous precision.

“You’re clear of Mantellum’s range?” I ask Morrigan as she sets me down, the pillar floating back into the air where it slowly begins to fracture into a myriad of long spears.

“I am,” Morrigan replies. “No possibility of victory in the next sixty seconds.”

Well fuck. Guess we need to stall him.

“Melee fighters move back,” Faultline’s voice comes through the radio, crackly but clear enough to hear. “Hit him from range, everything we have. Powers, bullets, I don’t care. Just shoot.”

I don’t know who made it through the portal before it blew, but the Indian Colonel who was supposed to be coordinating us all was with the rear-guard. It seems like Faultline has stepped up to take his place. People are certainly listening to her; while the flyers surrounded Eidolon, everyone else has been moving into cover around him. I can see soldiers fighting alongside capes, filling the air with a storm of lead and energy. Eidolon reacts by flying towards one group, using his new power to annihilate them, but our people are dispersed.

I watch as he hits a second group, unable to act, when Morrigan’s voice comes through my voice-box, as urgent as I’ve ever heard her.

“Sonnie, move! Now!”

I act without thinking, sprinting along the spongey surface towards Eidolon. I can’t see a way out; Eidolon is still surrounded by that electrical sphere, but I trust Morrigan’s judgement. After all; she has a vested interest in keeping my head firmly attacked to my shoulders.

As I get within fifty metres of Eidolon, a thought that had been pressing on the edge of my mind finally makes itself known.

“The spear! I dropped it as I fell.”

“You won’t need it,” Morrigan replies emotionlessly, as the metal pillar flies over my head and slams into the ceiling, right where it used to stand. The chamber’s support structure, already strained by the pillar’s absence, give way and a whole section of the roof collapses, a mountain of rubble slamming into the carcass in front of me and filling the air with concrete dust, so thick I have to shut off access to my lungs to avoid being choked.

“Climb!” the voice on my neck shouts as I slam into the still-shifting mountain of rubble. I move as fast as I can across the slippery and uneven surface, digging the remaining spikes of my tendrils into the sand-like mass to haul myself up. I clear the dust layer, moving unsteadily over a mass of twisted steel, and look out over the chamber. Eidolon, and the incandescent electrical sphere around him, is moving right towards me.

Then the mound of flesh at the base of the spoil heap bulges and explodes outwards. At first, I think this is another breached portal, but there’s none of the force of the other blast. The flesh gathers itself in mid-air, spinning into a single mass as it fragments into crystalline shards and reforms itself. An indigo light flickers at the centre of the mass, before the whole thing reshapes itself into an angled spear of bone.

“Now!” and I leap from my perch, falling through the air towards Eidolon on nothing but blind trust and animal instinct. The spear shifts again, more flesh flowing into it before the whole thing goes up in a shaped explosion of indigo light.

This thing, this corpse. Cauldron have been mining it, distilling it into the vials they then sold to their clients, or used to dose unwilling subjects. It contains the building blocks of those powers, but the mechanics of it are impossible to comprehend. Impossible, that is, unless you are an incredibly powerful precognitive and telekinetic.

Eidolon is struck by a beam of indigo energy, the electricity that had started to eat away at my body disappearing in an instant as he drops from the sky like a stone. I hit him in mid-air, digging my left hand into his costume and angling his body so that he hits the ground before me. There’s no way of knowing how long the effect will last; I have to take every advantage I can get.

We land on hard and callous bone, and I hear the impact rippling through his body even as it ripples through my own. I fight through the sensation, bringing my fist down into his face in a blow that cracks the glowing green LEDs that line his mask, splitting it down the middle. I rake my claws down his chest, cutting through the armour hidden in his costume, sculpted to resemble a muscled torso. He lets out ragged, gasping breaths for a few moments before the broken bones and the bleeding overcomes him, and the life leaves his eyes.

I haul myself to my feet, my right leg twitching in protest, and look down at the most powerful man in the world. Beneath the mask is a head that’s losing the battle with hair loss, a weary face that’s seen far too much. His body isn’t some Greek ideal of heroism; his sculpted abs served as decoration as well as armour.

He looks… exhausted, even in death.

I turn away from him, looking around the chamber that has been utterly reshaped by his power. Whole swathes of the immense carcass, the source of his power, have been blown apart, or crushed beneath the rubble. In the distance, I can see the heart of the room; an androgynous avatar with hair too long for its body, an incomplete form tied to the rest of the mass.

We’ve barely set foot in Cauldron and already we’ve found dead gods, fought living ones. I look up at the immense mass of concrete over our heads, like I can look through it and see all the way up whatever monstrosities we have yet to fight.

How much more will we have to face before we’re done?


	114. Interlude 16: Rukavitsa

I set the phone down with an air of finality. Another hurried report from our new frontline; not some distant battlefield on another country but here in Siberia. I look down at the form on my desk and feel the weight of the thing, even though it’s just a flimsy document of bound paper. It’s a step back, a risky move, but it’s one we may well have to take. We can’t afford to be passive, not now that our blood is in the water.

The Elitnaya Armiya are on the warpath, a pack of wild and rabid wolves circling to strike. Two days ago, the nations of the world finally woke up to Cauldron’s existence and they are flailing about in panic as they realise how thorough the rot is. Somehow, Moscow learned of our own connection, and leveraged that information to force the Elitnaya to strike us, not that those lapdogs needed much persuading.

I scribble my signature onto the last page of the sheet, not for the first time wondering of the power contained in such a meagre thing. I press a buzzer on my desk, nod at the salute of my sharply dressed aide, admiration still clear in his eyes four months after he rotated into the position, and send him away with the sheet. The document itself will be copied, with the original sent to our archives and the other to the commander on the ground. For expediency’s sake, the orders will be issued to him by phone long before the sheet arrives.

Once those orders reach him, he will begin marshalling his forces. A column of tanks will leave their base and head by rail into the streets of Novosibirsk, backed up by infantry and parahuman support. There they will move to reinforce our presence around the international airport, while artillery shells the Elitnaya Armiya branch based in the city. It’s a move not seen in Russia in a decade, though things have not yet got as bad as they did during the nineties.

It might come to that, though, if we don’t strike hard now. Across the entirety of Russia, and significant parts of our presence in the rest of Eurasia, the Gauntlet, _my_ Gauntlet, are mobilising every asset we have. Military assets, yes, but also compromat on key officials. The Elitnaya likes fighting each other almost as much as they like fighting us. They were built that way.

We taught Russia a lesson on the dangers of Parahumans cooperating as a single force, and so our successors were made to be constantly at each other’s throats. The Elitnaya Armiya exists only in name; it’s a catch-all term for different Parahuman departments of military organisations, police and intelligence services, all at each other’s throats as they constantly jockey for influence in Moscow.

A word in the right ear, a Red Gauntlet officer reaching out to an old colleague, candid photos from an illegal whorehouse in a neat brown envelope, it can all serve to turn them against each other, make them vulnerable and unwilling to come to each other’s aid. Then we play off our reputation amongst the people; the old communists who see us as the last remaining institution of the Soviet Union, the new students who are happy to choke the streets with barricades.

Soon the Federals will be caught up in crisis, collapsing under the weight of their own lies as the cities under their watch burn. Their military won’t want to fight us, their parahumans won’t be able to fight us and their people will be occupied by our own. Then we start rolling soldiers into the streets of Moscow itself, park tanks opposite the White House, and restore order to the streets.

I let a smile creep across my lips at the thought. It will not be easy to achieve this, but it is necessary. Perhaps we can turn this setback into new strength.

There’s a knock on the door. I take a moment to school my expression; the beaming smile was useful back when my father was running things, when I was the heart and soul of the Red Gauntlet rather than the brain, but now that I’m the leader I have to be more impassive. At least, when I’m around the people who haven’t been there since the start. The people who grew up on the legend of Rukavitsa rather than the woman I actually am.

The aide salutes me again, waiting for me to acknowledge the gesture before he speaks.

“Comrade Rukavitsa,” he begins, his words clipped and professional. “I have received a call through the covert line, from someone claiming to be representing a ‘Grafinya’. Their codes checked out, and they told me that the Grafinya wishes to meet with you.”

So now they get in touch… I wonder what took them so long?

“Thank you, Major. Have a car prepared.”

He salutes, turning on his heels and disappearing back into the outer office. Once the door has clicked shut, I let out a long sigh. I owe a great deal to Cauldron, the Gauntlet owes even more, but I know with all certainty that whatever they want from me can only be disruptive to my work here. Such is the nature of our relationship; but a mercenary cannot abandon a client for something so small as mere inconvenience.

I stand up from my desk, leaving the pile of paperwork in my in-tray for later, and set my peaked cap squarely on my head, double-checking my uniform in the mirror to make sure it’s all squared away. By now, I’ve spent most of my life in the public eye. I’ve appeared on recruiting posters across the entirety of Eurasia, and that romanticised image of myself has earned me the love of my people. I must work to be worthy of their love, even if it means agonising over minor details like whether my belt is on straight.

The moment I step out into the outer office, all conversation ceases and the five officers on my staff stand up straight with crisp salutes. I mirror their gesture with one of my own, letting them settle down and get back to work frantically rearranging my schedule as I make my way to this impromptu but not necessarily unexpected meeting.

Zhar-ptitsa is waiting for me in the corridor, still wearing his faded paratrooper’s beret and utilitarian olive-green Afghanka. He smiles at my approach, and I let my stony façade drop to match his grin. He is part of the old guard, the oldest among them, in fact. He is the only living survivor, myself excluded, of the fateful meeting that saw the foundation of the Red Gauntlet. More than that, he was a close personal friend of my father. Since his death, and my ascension to the marshalcy, Zhar-ptitsa has served as my closest confidant, even as he enthusiastically rejects any leadership role I care to offer him.

“Comrade Rukavitsa,” he says, slipping back into formality as a pair of staff officers pass us in the corridor, straightening up as they spot me and offering their best salutes, “surely you were not thinking of crossing the city alone?”

“Of course not, old friend,” I reply, an amused grin creeping across my face, “but the wonderful thing about employing bodyguards like yourself is that I no longer have to worry about my own security. I act, and it’s up to the rest of you to catch up.”

“True,” he says, as we step into the lift, “but this is… particularly sudden, even by your standards. Some recent security development, perhaps?”

“I wish,” I scowl at my reflection in the lift doors. “If it were a crisis, I would at least have some idea of how to deal with it. Our… _benefactors_ have contacted me. The Grafinya wishes to talk.”

Zhar-ptitsa falls silent, a dark expression on his face.

“What’s this, Uncle Iosif? None of your usual words of wisdom?”

“My wisdom is backed by experience, young lady.” He replies, a smile on his face. I can see it’s forced.

“But?”

He shakes his head.

“You already know how I feel about these… power brokers. I was not fond of them when they first approached your father, and I am even less fond of them now. Whatever the reason, the world has taken up arms against them. I am worried that this meeting will drag us into a war we cannot win.”

“Perhaps,” I say, “but we owe them too much, and they hold too much leverage over us.”

“I know,” he sighs, as we step out of the lift and out into the walled compound of our headquarters. There are three vehicles waiting for me, armoured cars that straddle the line between civilian and military aesthetics. It shows more political tact than I was expecting from Zhar-ptitsa; I was half expecting a tank and two armoured personnel carriers. My security detail is spread out around the vehicles, dressed in smart uniforms but armed with modern assault rifles. It was once suggested to me that I have them wear less military attire like most other bodyguards, but a soldier does not stop being a soldier simply because he’s put on a suit.

I take my seat in the comfortable interior of the central vehicle, taking off my hat and waiting as the convoy pulls out into the streets of Omsk. A few months ago, I would have been able to go with one vehicle, sometimes I would even _walk_. But with the Federals on the warpath, the risk of a sniper is too great. I can see their effect on the streets of the city; people are worried, staying at home where possible and walking with their eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Omsk is firmly a Red Gauntlet city; it is our headquarters and the centre of our industrial might. It is also a bustling city in its own right, filled with a population that looks to us for protection.

My eye is drawn to a flag flying from the highest point of the city’s cathedral. A tricolour in black, yellow and white. Zhar-ptitsa spots it too, swearing under his breath before reaching for his radio.

“I’ll have a few people go and take that down.”

“No, don’t,” I interrupt before he can start transmitting. “Sending soldiers into a church to tear down a Russian flag is exactly the sort of propaganda victory Moscow is hoping for. Have one of our more pious senior officers get in touch with the Bishop. He won’t overtly support us, but perhaps he can be persuaded to neutrality.”

Zhar-ptitsa nods, putting down his radio for the moment. The trap here is clear; by tearing down a Russian flag, we send a message that we are entirely separate from Russia. That’s one step away from being an invader. In truth, the real trap is that it’s true. We are so much more than a mere national army; we asserted as much in the deserts of Eritrea, when we cut ties with the crumbling Soviet Union and forged our own path as a soldiers’ army, free from national or ideological ties.

In many ways, this current Russian state was formed in that same desert. It saw its unified Parahuman defenders cut their losses and abandon it, and so it set down an extreme and reactionary path, working to cripple its Parahuman organisations even as it tries to turn them on us. It hates us, hates everything we represent, but it needs us even more. Without us, they have no way of projecting power on the international stage.

I turn my thoughts away from the fractured nation we inhabit as the convoy pulls into yet another walled compound, a communication hub that doubles as the site of the Red Gauntlet’s most secretive organisations. Including a small liaison office consisting only of a spotless meeting room for conversations with our benefactors.

I had thought that by putting the room away from the headquarters, I would be sending a message that we are not subordinate to Cauldron. Instead, it means that I have to come to them, crawling halfway across the city like some cringing supplicant answering the call of her patron. On the other hand, I suspect I would think similarly if I had met them in the headquarters. They have a habit of working their way into my mind.

Perhaps it is the contempt they feel for me. I’ve never seen it in the Grafinya, she has never been anything less than the very picture of politeness, but the other agents of theirs we deal with seem to view me with hostility and something close to disgust. I suppose it’s because, unlike them, I did not gain powers through their vials. They did not create me, so they do not entirely trust me.

I stride through the offices and hallways, passing a constant stream of officers and soldiers, each one of them standing straight at attention and looking at me with barely-concealed awe. The door to the meeting room itself is unremarkable, secured by an electronic lock that only I know the code for. It’s more of a symbolic barrier than anything particularly practical. It’s not like there’s anything kept in the room that needs protecting.

My guards fan out on either side of the doorway, Zhar-ptitsa giving me a brief look of concern before turning his face impassive. I input the code, push open the doorway, and step into the meeting room with my head held high, only to falter at the sight of the stranger sitting on the other side of the desk.

He’s a young man, perhaps twenty-five or so, a decade younger than myself. He’s dressed in a crisp grey suit, with a little pin on his lapel bearing Cauldron’s symbol. The pin is a recent addition, but apart from that he could be any one of the low-level functionaries who worked closely with our organisation until two thousand and nine, when Cauldron downsized after the Simurgh’s attack on Madison.

Except none of those people were supposed to be _here_.

“You aren’t who I was expecting,” I say, keeping my tone level in spite of my rising fear. I’m alone here, defenceless. I don’t _think_ I’ve done anything they’d kill me over, but I can’t be sure. I can _never_ be sure with them.

I sit down at one end of the long conference table that dominates the room, the seal of the Red Gauntlet hanging off the wall behind me. Cauldron’s man is sitting at the opposite end, on the only other chair in the room. Cauldron’s own logo hangs behind him, the room designed to give the impression that Cauldron and the Red Gauntlet are equal allies.

“The Grafinya is indisposed, comrade Marshal of the Red Gauntlet,” he says, in perfect Russian tainted by a noticeable German accent. “She sends her apologies, as well as me to speak in her place.”

“And you are?”

“I am called Botschafter.”

“So what does Cauldron demand from the Gauntlet today?” I lean back in my seat, looking down the length of the table at him. There is something about his tone that has me on edge, not like the diplomatic Grafinya at all.

“Demand?” he smiles, a sickening thing. “Nichts. To make a demand would suggest that we ask for something outside the boundaries of our existing arrangement. Cauldron provides the Red Gauntlet with vials to bolster your ranks with new Parahumans, allowing you to maintain the unity and numerical superiority of your organisation. In exchange, you provide soldaten for our needs.”

“Surely you can see the situation has changed?” I ask him, steepling my fingers. “Your organisation has been exposed to the world, and that has dragged _my_ organisation to the brink of war.”

“The situation has changed, ja, but the _agreement_ has not. In fact, I would argue that a situation like this is exactly what such an agreement was made for, denken Sie nicht?”

 _He’s right_. Damn him for an insolent little shit, but he’s right.

“So what is it you want?”

He slides a folder down the entire length of the conference table, a little brown thing marked ‘top secret’ and stamped with their logo.

“Our immediate priority is for forces to fight this ‘Schattenkrieg.’ Several facilities on Bet need to be defended, high value individuals need to be extracted from custody, while others need to be… silenced. A Spetsnaz battalion will suffice, with Parahuman support.”

“That can be arranged,” I say, mulling it over in my head, “and without overly affecting our own operations. I assume you will provide transport?”

“Natürlich.”

“Contact my staff at seventeen hundred. We should have a battalion ready for tasking.”

“Danke schön. The next request is for a smaller force; two of your Specialist Parahuman Companies for special tasking.”

I scowl. ‘Special tasking’ means that these soldiers will never return. I would never have allowed the practice, had the Grafinya not assured me that they would be well looked after and allowed to retire to a life of comparative luxury once Cauldron no longer needs their services. I cannot be sure exactly of what it is they do, but I strongly suspect they are employed as guards in Cauldron’s more sensitive facilities. The ones not on Bet.

“Unacceptable. I cannot throw away two whole companies at a time like this. I tolerated this arrangement before because I trusted the Grafinya to keep to her word. _You_ are an unknown.”

“Comrade Rukavitsa,” he says, his hands outstretched in a placating gesture, “I understand this request may seem excessive, but I assure you we would not make it if it were not absolutely necessary. As for the Grafinya, she is not here, _ja_. But she trusts me enough to act in her name. It is not too unreasonable to ask you to do the same, denken Sie nicht?”

“Perhaps not,” I scowl. No matter what I might think, I am bound by the terms of our agreement. I can only hope that this… Botschafter is as true to his word as the Grafinya herself.

“The final thing we would ask of you is an arduous task, but one I have every confidence you will succeed at. We have learned that an alliance of forces has formed for a direct strike against us, spearheaded by the Thanda and the Indian military. Your final task is to go to war against these powers, to discern their plans, and drag this shadow war into the light.”

“You can’t be serious,” I say, every hint of my prior restraint leaving me. “We need to focus our efforts on the domestic situation, not go to war with an entire nation.”

“I am completely serious,” he says icily, staring at me. “We are aware of the risks, and Cauldron are prepared to compensate you for them. One hundred and fifty vials should be more than enough to bring your General Staff on board.”

“Forget the General Staff. _I_ am not on board with the plan.”

“Unfortunate,” he says, steepling his fingers. “Rukavitsa… I am sure you are well aware of the great achievements your organisation has made with our support. With the Protectorate at risk of collapse, the Red Gauntlet may soon become the largest Parahuman organisation in the world. You have built such a wonderful structure, but you did it with our bricks, our mortar. We would be well within our rights to take those building materials back if you seriously intend to tear up our agreement. _Denken Sie nicht?”_

Fuck. This little shit has me stuck. How many of our Parahuman personnel took Cauldron’s vials? Ten percent? Twenty-five? Enough to cripple us, should those powers or those people be taken away. I have no choice, other than to do what he asks.

I stand up, looking down the length of the table at Botschafter as I set my peaked cap back on my head. I have always known that Cauldron held a great deal of influence over my organisation, but at least the Grafinya was always civil, respectable. She spoke to me with _respect_ , like someone who she is almost, but not quite, equal to. But Botschafter…

I just hope this isn’t a sign of things to come.

<|°_°|>

The disused runway is completely filled with armoured vehicles, stretching back as far as the long expanse of concrete allows. Soldiers fill the space in-between, sitting around their vehicles and checking over their weapons and equipment, the little rituals that every soldier goes through before moving into battle. I walk through their ranks, not saying anything, simply letting them see me. They don’t get up to salute me, that sort of behaviour can be lethal in the field, but they do stiffen up at the sight, going through their checks with a little more vigour.

I stop at one or two of the vehicles, accepting some instant coffee and sitting a while with the men, talking to them about nothing in particular. Some of them, the youngest, seem to be expecting me to make some sort of speech. Certainly, it used to be that way, back when we still fought for the Soviets, but times have changed. Our senior ranks might still be filled with men who first fought in the Soviet Army, the People’s Liberation Army, the Yugoslav People’s Army, but we aren’t the same as those now defunct forces.

We have no ideology. No creed to follow, no speeches to be made. What motivates us is our own self-interest. At first, it was the interest of the Parahumans persecuted by the Soviet Union. We banded together, formed the Red Gauntlet and offered it to the Soviets, as a way to survive in a Soviet world. I was only fourteen at the time, but I still remember those days clearly.

Then the Union collapsed, while we were busy fighting to advance Soviet interests in Eritrea and Ethiopia. My father saw that the Soviet world had ended, and that to keep our people safe we needed to adapt to the world that would take its place. He gathered together every Soviet advisor and soldier in Ethiopia, then declared that the Red Gauntlet would be selling its services to the highest bidder. Against all the odds, it was the Eritrean rebels who offered the highest bid.

At first, we thought the CIA were the ones who had provided the money. But still, we turned our guns on the country we had been fighting for and won the war for the Eritreans. My father lost his life in the fighting, killed by a stray bullet, and I found myself chosen to take his place. A sixteen-year-old girl at the head of an army.

It was later, as I shook the hands of the leader of the newly-formed State of Eritrea, that the Grafinya first approached me. She was younger then, of course, but still half a decade older than me. It made her appear both impressive, and relatable. She told me that her organisation was responsible for funding the Gauntlet’s break from the Union, and that her organisation wished to see the Gauntlet flourish and prosper.

She set things up so that we could return to Russia as heroes. The new Government hated us, but we were beloved by the people. We had brought their sons back from an unwinnable and unpopular war. I found myself thrust into the limelight, Russia’s prodigal daughter, and new recruits flooded in. What had started out as a haven for Parahumans, became a haven for soldiers as well.

Looking out over the sea of mechanised might, it’s hard to think back to the oldest days, before I gained my powers, back when I was helpless and running from the authorities with my parents. We’ve come so far, and hopefully we have farther still to go.

At the end of the runway is a great arch, sealed away from satellites beneath an immense hanger. It began as a portal into another world, bought for an absurd sum from a team of American mercenaries. Our Artificers have twisted it, redirecting its dimensional energies into the arch and turning them inwards to create a tunnel to anywhere on _this_ Earth. The ultimate strategic tool.

It bursts into life, a long tunnel lined with cracking white energy. The energy destroys anything organic, so soldiers must pass through sealed away in their armoured vehicles. A small price to pay for such strategic range. I watch as the advance guard passes through the portal, a column of tanks disappearing into the unknown, before moving over to my own vehicle.

My armour moves with me, powered servos working effortlessly to enhance and compensate for my own muscles. I have to turn it over to its creator for maintenance after each engagement, but it is a small price to pay for protection. The armour itself is rust-red, covering my body from head to toe and with a clear faceplate that lets me be seen by all I pass.

I didn’t have much of an input on the design of the armour, telling my Artificers to just ‘make it practical’ but I’ve added my own affectation to it by throwing a utilitarian trench coat over my shoulders, clasped together by a gorget, in a deliberate mockery of the fashion for capes. The Americans may be happy to prance around like circus performers, but if any of my soldiers were to suddenly develop a fondness for gaudy spandex, I’d send them to take a psychological evaluation.

I’m surrounded by the Bogatyrs, my own personal company. Parahumans and soldiers handpicked by me to fight by my side, the successors to the original few members of the Red Gauntlet. Each soldier, and most of the Parahumans, is dressed in utilitarian armour the same rust-red colour as my own. Their armour isn’t powered, but it was built from Artificer-forged alloys.

I’m about to clamber into the back of my own armoured transport, when a uniformed officer approaches me, clutching a folder in his hand and with a worried look on his face.

“Comrade General Lyubimtsev,” I greet my director of counterintelligence. “What seems to the matter?”

“A report for you, comrade Rukavita,” he says as he hands me the file. “Of the utmost urgency.”

I frown, opening up the flimsy thing and scanning down the pages. My frown deepens, and I hand the file back to the General with a scowl on my face.

“How do you want to proceed?” he asks me.

I turn my gaze up the runway, to where the advance guard is no doubt already carving a path through the enemy.

“We’re already engaged. The attack proceeds as planned, but I want you to make preparations should the worst come to pass. Be discreet.”

He simply nods and strides back across the runway. I take one last look at the portal before stepping into the back of my APC, followed closely by Zhar-ptitsa and the rest of my closest guards. None of us talk, as the hatch closes and the vehicle lurches forwards into the portal.

The hatch slams open and I sprint out after my Bogatyrs into a battlefield already filled with the sounds of gunfire, explosions and parahuman powers. I take shelter behind the APC as it advances through the choked streets, listening in on the army-wide comms as regiments move to advance through the streets itself. Only once I have a handle on the wider situation, do I look over the mass of rubble I’d instinctually taken shelter behind.

As I had expected, the sky is filled with Parahumans and aircraft, the vast majority of them hostile. We can’t bring aircraft through the unstable currents of the portal, and our enemy are exploiting that weakness. The Parahuman flyers must either belong to the Garama or the Protectorate; they’re used to police action, where a flying presence can be a useful deterrent. But this is war.

In my head, I’ve been silently counting down seconds. Four hundred kilometres from this city, in a Red Gauntlet base in Pakistan, Tchaikovsky’s Artificer-made artillery has already fired a salvo of shells. They should be hitting right… about… now.

Eight detonations appear in the skies over Jaipur, explosions of blinding electricity that scatter intricate webs of energy across the sky until it glows with an electric light. The storm incinerates every aircraft in the sky, vaporising every cape without the means to protect themselves.

The storm will linger for six hours. If we can’t use the sky, nobody can.

I step out from behind my cover, my eyes on a flying cape who’s managed to survive the storm, his body surrounded by a glowing green energy shield. I reach out with one hand and hit him with a blast of my power before _pulling_ , his shield flickering and fading as his power is drawn into me. He drops like a stone, as the energy that fuelled his power coalesces like burning red flames around my hand.

I look to my Bogatyrs before waving Zhar-ptitsa forwards, eager anticipation clear to see in his eyes. I point my burning hand at him and expel the energy in a blast that engulfs him from head to toe in red for a brief moment, before disappearing.

“Go!” I tell him, and he bursts into flames as his body is instantly transformed into a fireball that melts steel, soaring through the city as screams start to rise from the streets. I take the power of others, and give it to boost those of my allies.

I did not found the Red Gauntlet, that honour will always belong to my father, but I was the nucleus around which it was formed. With my power, no Parahuman foe could stand against us. It is the reason I came to lead the Gauntlet as well. Each time I use it on someone, they are imbued with a deep sense of loyalty towards me for as long as the boost lasts. Though the direct effect fades, something like that stays with people. It spread my legend, making me the icon I am today.

My only consolation is that my Bogatyrs were already loyal to me before I used my power on them. That’s why I chose them.

I drain another parahuman, a low-flying Garama cape who survives his fall from the sky but doesn’t survive the gunfire of the first soldiers to find his body. This power I split into five charges, giving them to some of my unpowered guards. My Bogatyrs only carry carbines; their main weapons are the powers I can give them. Always random, but each soldier instinctively knows how to wield the power they bear.

In this case, that power manifests itself into two ranged powers, a minor telekinetic, iron skin and something that isn’t immediately apparent. I repeat the process as we advance through the city, taking the powers of others and giving new ones to the powerless, or boosting the powers of my Parahuman followers.

The Indian military puts up a decent defence, but they weren’t expecting the sheer ferocity of our approach. Our portal has been kept in utmost secrecy, and we have no mass-teleporters in our ranks. As far as the Indians were aware, our plan was for a more traditional armoured breakthroughs in Kashmir and Gujarat, not a surgical strike on their command centre.

Within an hour, the city is ours. I move through the shattered streets, past surrendered Indian soldiers being marched into cellars or police cells, anywhere they can be stowed until we’re done here. India’s military high command buildings were destroyed along with most of New Delhi, so the operations against Cauldron were planned out in South Western Command, in Jaipur. I leave most of my Bogatyrs outside the headquarters, only taking Zhar-ptitsa and two unpowered guards with me inside.

The building itself is under the command of Noosphere’s regiment, a mind-controller of sorts whose soldiers are all linked into a neural network that she can influence to see through their eyes, guide their actions, or tweak their emotional state. Consequently, her battalion is the most tight-knit in the whole Gauntlet, although no soldier forced to leave the battalion, and the five-kilometre range of her power, on a medical discharge has managed to last a few weeks without committing suicide.

She has only been briefed in the most abstract terms on what we’re looking for here, but it was enough for her to have two of her soldiers take me down to the main server room. The room itself is almost entirely intact, save for the freshly-deceased body of an Indian soldier slumped against one of the server stacks. The means by which this ‘coalition’ plans to attack Cauldron are contained within these servers. The two soldiers are looking over the stack on the opposite side of the room, while Zhar-ptitsa is looking at me.

I kneel down over the body of the Indian soldier, pick up his rifle, and fire it into the two soldiers, killing them instantly and destroying the server stack behind them. Zhar-ptitsa watches impassively as I curl the Indian soldier’s hands around the gun, bringing it up so that it looks like he fired it in his last, dying moments.

My oldest bodyguard understand my intent immediately, igniting his body and throwing himself into the corpse, burning it, and the server stack behind it, to a crisp. Seconds later a full squad of Noosphere’s men burst through the door, rifles raised. They take in the sight in an instant, looking around uncertainty.

“Stand down,” I tell them, gesturing to the body beside me. “This one wasn’t as dead as he first appeared, but Zhar-ptitsa dealt with the matter. I suggest you check the other bodies, just in case.”

The squad leader nods, seemingly unaffected by his two dead comrades on the other side of the room. Compared to the effects of Noosphere’s power on the people in her network, my own mental manipulation seems tame in comparison. I have even heard some of her men say that the dead of their battalion still live on in the collective memory of the gestalt consciousness.

Once they have all left to double-check the rest of the building, Zhar-ptitsa turns to me with an unasked question on his lips.

“Cauldron sent a mind-controller to negotiate with me,” I tell him bluntly. “I received the routine brain-scan report from counterintelligence just before deploying. In hindsight, I should have noticed. The man they sent spoke fluent Russian, but he littered his sentences with German words and phrases. He ended each key point with ‘ _denken Sie nicht?_ ’, ‘don’t you agree?’ Once is nothing, twice is an affectation, but three times? That is a power that relies on a specific phrase, one spoken in his native tongue.”

“They must be getting desperate,” Zhar-ptitsa says, “but that doesn’t justify-”

“‘ _Desperate_ ’ is the wrong word. I think it was simply business as usual. The Grafinya wasn’t there. I’m beginning to think she must be dead. Every time I went to meet with her in that room, she was able to persuade me to go along with her plans, to acquiesce to her demands while still feeling like I had gained some upper hand. I liked her, respected her, but what if that like and respect was the product of a subtler power, one that let her persuade me without leaving obvious signs of mental manipulation? It would render every interaction I have ever had with Cauldron suspect.”

Zhar-ptitsa looks down at the two corpses for a moment before speaking.

“And Noosphere got her powers from a vial.”

“Exactly. She spent weeks going through their evaluations, making sure she was a ‘suitable candidate.’ Weeks, in which they could have instilled all manner of mental programming.”

I kneel down beside the two soldiers, men who probably enlisted underneath a poster with my face on it. Perhaps they have my picture on the wall of their locker. They trusted me, as all my soldiers trust me.

“What are two more lives,” I ask Zhar-ptitsa, “compared to the _hundreds_ I have sent away on ‘special tasking,’ never to be seen again.”

“So, what do we do now?”

“There’s nothing we can do,” I say, as I stand up. “If our vial Parahumans are compromised, a quarter of our forces could turn on us in an instant. Combined with the tensions back home and the stresses of this campaign, it could finish us.”

I sweep an arm over the destroyed servers.

“But without the information these servers contained, the coalition’s plans will never be revealed. They may be able to defeat Cauldron, leaving our forces with no other loyalty than to the Gauntlet. We need to put up the appearance of waging war on India while preserving as much of our forces as possible, to claim we were influenced and sue for peace from a position of strength.”

I step close to my oldest confidant, the only founding member of the Gauntlet left alive, and look him in the eye.

“The world is changing once again. We need to change with it.”


	115. Nemesis: 17.01

Eidolon’s sudden appearance was enough to knock everyone out of whatever stupor the immense corpse had put them in and, after his death, they didn’t slip back into it. Oh don’t get me wrong, they’re still every bit as freaked out by it as I am, but they’re not entranced or horrified by it like they were before. They stare at it, some people reaching down to brush against a particularly interesting bit, but, gradually, people start to come together again, pulling themselves out of the rubble and moving towards the centre of the room.

We gather together underneath the partially-formed avatar, at the centre of the cavernous space, and take stock of our losses so far. The easy confidence everyone felt back on board the aircraft carrier has gone, but fear hasn’t taken its place. We can’t run, because there’s nowhere to run to. By now, the warlords of Abidjan will have taken back control of their city, the forces we left their either evacuated by helicopter to the fleet or slaughtered to the last by the locals.

No, there’s no room for fear. Not now. What I see as I look around the assembled parahumans and soldiers, still coated with the dust and grime of another world, is a sort of weary acceptance. We’ve put ourself in this pit, cut off our every avenue of escape, and now the only choice we have is to keep fighting, to push on and hope we can win this thing.

But we’ve already lost so much, and we’ve barely got our foot in the door.

The Irregulars were the worst hit. They’re used to fighting people like Eidolon – capes, I mean. Fuck, some of them probably trained or worked alongside him in the Protectorate. They knew him, or knew of him, and that made them confident, made them act first. Fifty Irregulars got off the carrier in Abidjan. Twenty remain. I can see Weld taking a headcount, taking stock of the dead. There are no wounded; the way Eidolon was going after us, people either lived or they didn’t.

There aren’t many soldiers left either, military or Thanda. We put our best foot forward coming through the portal, which meant the capes. The soldiers were supposed to delay the warlords for long enough to get everyone through, but Eidolon cut them off when he detonated the portal. Of course, there’s still not really any way to tell which of the Thanda survivors are capes and which aren’t. There are a few who’ve dropped their weapons somewhere, which suggests that they don’t need them.

As for the military types, they’ve mostly rallied around Blasto and Eve in their distinctively biomechanical armour. Perched in and among them, all up a mound of flesh, are Blasto’s Cyclops. He brought some of the simpler ones too, the Raptors, but they were going to be the last through. The Cyclops aren’t just organic, though. They’re four-armed cyborgs with as much tech as bitek, carrying vicious looking guns and scanning the environment with beady mechanical eyes.

Compared to the rest of them, we’re the smallest group by a country mile. But we’re also the only ones to have made it through that shitshow mostly unscathed. Newter has a new bandage he didn’t have before, but he was fast enough to get out of the way of Eidolon. Elle’s okay, thankfully, and everyone else is just bruised and battered from the ordeal, with no serious injuries. Everyone except for me; I’m down one-and-a-bit limbs, riddled with internal fractures, a couple of breaks and my skin looks like I lost an argument with a microwave oven. But I’m still fit to fight.

A Thanda cape appears among the group, teleporting in right next to a guy who’s lost his shemagh, revealing a world-weary face with a close-cropped goatee. He’s lost his gun too, but he’s holding a pistol like he knows how to use it. He has a brief conversation with the teleporter, before exchanging more words with a woman, who steps forwards. An interpreter?

“There’s an exit. Eight hundred meters away, built into the wall. It leads into a staircase. We haven’t found any others.”

“Sounds like an ambush waiting to happen,” Faultline murmurs to herself beside me. She takes a step forwards away from our group, towards the androgynous body suspended high above the ground, and raises her voice.

“We send the Cyclops up first, followed by our Brutes and Strikers. Weld, I suggest you take charge of the vanguard. I will lead a second ascent, using Labyrinth to create a parallel staircase straight up from here. We’ll reconvene on the next floor.”

A murmur of agreement passes around the group. Faultline steps back, turning to look at us.

“Khanivore, Scrub and Shamrock, I want you three to go with Weld’s group.”

It makes sense. Scrub’s power could be pretty self-destructive if it goes up while everyone’s standing on something Labyrinth’s made. I nod to the boss, before ambling across the expanse of spongy flesh to the Irregulars. Weld, noticing what I’m doing, sends five of his own people over to Palanquin in exchange. He nods at me in greeting, before turning and walking off towards the edge of the immense chamber. The Indian military, those of them that are left, turn to follow us as Blasto’s creatures start leaping ahead on jetpacks.

The man himself jogs a little until he’s level with me. He’s looking around at the flesh-garden with barely contained awe, occasionally kicking at interesting bits with his feet and laughing as they wobble.

“Having fun?”

He looks up at me, grinning from ear to ear.

“This is _it_ , Sonnie. The fucking source of it all. The key to figuring all this shit out; powers, dimensions, affinity. It’s right under our fucking feet. And it’s so… beautiful.”

“I don’t see it, myself,” I reply, peering up at a particularly grotesque mass of grasping arms. “The Case-53s don’t see it that way either. This thing _disgusts_ them. Or terrifies them. Or both.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” he says, looking around at the distinctly uneasy Irregulars. “Maybe it’s something to do with _how_ they got their powers. This thing’s important. I don’t know if it’s just one symbiote, or a whole bunch of them, but it’s important. Powers in a bottle…”

He bends over, pulling a strip of flesh off the ground and running it between his fingers as it disintegrates into crystalline tissue.

“Can you even feel anything through those gloves?” I ask.

“Tactile sensors in the fingers,” he replies, as the last of the flesh collapses in his hand. “The whole suit is linked up to my spine. It’s about as close to an extension of my body as you can get.”

He falls silent again, lost in thought. He looks up at the electric lighting high overhead, the gantries barely visible among the shadowy rafters.

“I think it’s a question of purity. ‘Natural’ powers are pretty seamless, right? Lauren doesn’t need any physical modifications to work her power, neither do I. Our symbiotes do all the heavy lifting for us. The power has been properly integrated.”

His eyes drop from the rafters, taking in the misshapen members of the Irregulars.

“But this thing, whatever it is, is dead. There’s no guiding intelligence behind it to ease the process along. Instead, Cauldron are digging bits of it up, mixing them into vials, and trying to recreate that perfect connection. The end results are… symbiotes and humans mixed together. Experiments, I guess, as they get closer and closer to perfection.”

“They’re _people_ ,” I snarl. “Not _experiments_.”

“Can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.”

“They’re not bloody _eggs_ , either…” I murmur, glancing behind me at the rest of the immense chamber.

A structure is taking shape at the heart of the chamber, stonework and concentric tiled rooves spiralling up into the sky, taking the shape of an immense tower. The whole structure is ablaze, but the fire doesn’t seem to be hurting any of the people clambering up it. It lights up the room, casting immense flickering shadows over mounds of flesh, lighting up the androgynous avatar frozen at the point of death.

I think about the girl, at the centre of the tower.

And then we hit the wall, and our little column of people stops as Weld hurriedly sorts out a marching order. Blasto sends his Cyclops up first, moving in wordless precision with their enormous guns raised up in front of them, their second set of arms ready to rend and tear anything that gets close. Weld is next in, Sveta’s tendrils still looped through his body, leading the pack of Brutes and Strikers. I follow him up, just barely behind him, as we clamber into the tight-packed staircase.

The climb takes an age, far more than the height of the flesh-chamber. I think back to the mound of steel-reinforced concrete the Morrigan tore down. Why bury the corpse beneath so much concrete? Were they afraid it would wake up, or that someone would tunnel down and find it? Like so much of this place, this organisation, it’s a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a whole heap of paranoia.

Eventually, though, the Cyclops in front of us turns and gestures with one of its arms. A few more flights there and we spill out into a wide-open corridor of grey concrete, long and lit by simple fluorescent lights embedded into the ceiling. I turn back down the line, calling for Shamrock to come up to the front. Out of all of us, she’s the only one who remembers this place.

Well, there’s also Matryoshka, but she was among the group Weld sent to Palanquin.

Blasto comes up with her, his lips pursed.

“There’s something out there. Invisible, or intangible. About a hundred feet out from the group, all of my Cyclops just got hit. Dozens of blows, all at once. I lost three. I pulled the survivors back, and the attack stopped once they closed back in on us.”

“The Custodian,” Shamrock says, bluntly. “She’s found us, but something’s keeping her back.”

“It sounds like Mantellum’s power,” Sveta says.

“The Custodian either can’t see us, or can’t manifest its power near us,” Weld agrees with the Irregular’s assessment. “So long as we stick close, we should be fine.”

I look back, already seeing Irregulars and soldiers bunching up at the top of the stairs.

“There’s a lot of us. We’re not going to be very manoeuvrable in these corridors.”

“I know,” Weld replies. “But what choice do we have?”

He sets off down the corridor, and I follow him, easily keeping pace with his shorter stride. The corridor here is four times my width, the walls clean in spite of their simple construction. We come across a set of large double-doors, immense metal bulkheads that could hold off an army.

They’re wide open, and they haven’t been forced.

We press on.

The corridor here is as wide as it was before, but the walls are occasionally broken up by intermittent metal doors, every one of them open. Inside are cavernous spaces, immense cells of bare concrete with oversized furniture, if a bed and some kind of shower/toilet/sink counts as furniture. The cells are empty, the metal plaques by each door left bare.

And then, suddenly they’re not. One of the Cyclops peers into a cell ahead of us, before raising a fist in a cautionary gesture. Weld and I creep closer, peering around the open bulkhead door and into the cell itself. There’s something in there, looking like a mound of shells, rooted to the ground. Then it moves, ever so slightly, and the whole picture just clicks in my mind.

I can see the outline of muscles and limbs in the spaces where the shells break. I’m looking at someone’s back, at heaving muscles, and a neck that’s fused into its shoulder, all coated in an incredibly thick layer of green-grey shells. It’s sitting cross legged, facing away from the door, and it seems to have rooted itself into the ground. Weld steps into the cell, and I follow. It’s then I realise that this thing is _muttering_ to itself.

“It isn’t real… It is not… It’s… my mind, playing tricks on me.”

“Can you hear me?” Sveta calls across the room. “You’re safe now. We’re here to help.”

“Lies… nothing but lies. My own mind, lying to me.”

Weld takes another step forward, then stops as I grip his shoulder in my hand. One of Sveta’s tendrils squirms beneath me, far stronger than it looks. Weld hasn’t seen what I saw; the faint wisp of gas leaking out of the gaps between the shells.

“Weld, stop.”

“We have to help him!” he exclaims.

“You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped,” I say, loud enough that the captive can hear it. “The best you can do is plant that first seed of doubt in their mind. Let it whisper to them, growing louder and louder, until it grows so loud that they can’t ignore it, no matter how much they might want to. Then they’ll step out of the shell they’ve built around themselves and realise the world is a whole lot bigger than they made it. It’s not a fast process, but it’s the _only_ way. Nobody’s mind was ever changed by a single conversation.”

“You’re wrong,” Weld says, shrugging me off. I curl a tendril around his waist and dig my heels in.

“I’m not. I’ve been there, been him. I’d built a shell around myself, and it took Faultline months of careful influence to break me out of it. If she’d told me, the first day we met, to rethink my whole fucking life, I wouldn’t have changed. I’d have lashed out and sunk deeper into my own delusions.”

Weld stops, pausing, but I know he’s still thinking of going in. He’s a good person like that.

“You can’t save _everyone_ , but you can give them what they need to save themselves. Come on, Weld. We’ve barely got our foot in the door; there’s going to be a lot more like this before we’re done.”

Weld sighs, sparing one last look at the mutated parahuman before stepping out into the corridor. He takes a moment to centre himself, straightening his shoulders.

“What _is_ this place?” Sveta asks nobody in particular,

“Shamrock’s one end of the scale,” I answer. “Powers without any obvious mutations. Weld is somewhere in the middle. These people are the other end of the scale. Extreme deviations. I can’t be sure, but I reckon you were probably in one of these cells, once.”

She falls silent, her eyes downcast. I can’t say I blame her. I don’t know what would be worse; knowing that you were once in one of these cells, or not remembering any of it.

We press on, taking extra care to look into each cell. The doors here are open as well, but none of the cells are still occupied. The reason for that soon becomes clear, as we turn a corner and are suddenly confronted with the aftermath of a bloodbath. Two Deviants have torn into each other, their bodies mutated to the point where it’s hard to tell where one body ends and the other begins. Great chunks have been taken out of the walls and floor and a trail of blood leads away from the bodies, deeper into the facility.

“They’ve filled the halls with lunatics,” I say. “Probably hope they’ll be rabid enough to attack us on sight. The first line of defence.”

It doesn’t take us long to find another live one, a six-legged creature with pitch black hide that’s covered in spines. As it sees us it leaps into a wall, turning into a puddle of inky blackness that sticks to the wall like paint. It stays there for a moment, as two Cyclops aim their rifles at it, before stepping back out of its self-made shadow. It looks up at us, tilting its head. I don’t think it can speak.

“You want out?” I ask it, providing a universal translation by pointing a finger at the ceiling then dragging it across my throat. It nods immediately, scraping its claws angrily against the concrete. Guess not every one of them went insane.

The creature falls into step next to me as we carry on. The bodies become more frequent the further we go, all sorts of different shapes. A couple of the cells have people still in them, most of them unwilling or unable to leave. Gradually, I start to hear the sounds of shouts and groans and… growls. Flesh hitting flesh, bones snapping, powers going off.

And then, we round a corner, and there they are. A maelstrom of flesh tearing into each other. I stretch myself up to my full twelve feet of height, looking over the melee. Palanquin are there, along with a few Thanda capes. Two of Blasto’s Cyclops step forward, their weapons raised and ready to fire. They can’t see our allies on the other side. I knock their gun barrels down with two tendrils and push in front of them, gesturing for Weld to step up beside me.

“The others are just past this lot,” I say by way of explanation. “We can’t shoot or we might hit them.”

“So we do this the hard way,” Weld says, shifting metal onto his hands until they become like solid blocks of iron. Ahead of us, one of the deviants hears our approach, looking up from where it’d been tearing a body into bloody chunks. It’s more humanoid than most of them, but that humanity doesn’t extend to its eyes. They’re dead, feral, and when it sees us it _screams_.

To me the sound is deafening, but all around me the capes drop like stones, clutching at their ears. Weld falls too, his body shifting and groaning as Sveta spasms. I try to speak, only to find my voice box isn’t picking up my affinity neuron symbiont. A power nullifier that targets the link between symbiote and host?

I spring forwards, the mutated subject momentarily caught off guard by its power’s failure to affect me. It doesn’t last long, though, and soon it’s leaping towards me, its limbs bending unnaturally as it springs from wall to wall. It pounces, and I duck under its first blow, dragging a tendril along the length of its chest.

That’s not enough to stop it, though, and it responds by leaping backwards on knees that’ve bent the wrong way, latching onto my head with its claws and reaching to try and dig out an eye. I don’t give it a chance, reversing a tendril and driving it through the lunatic’s head, covering me in a spray of gore. It falls silent, and the capes behind me haul themselves back to their feet.

We move slowly, methodically carving a path through the corridor. Trapped between us and Palanquin, the deviant’s degraded minds drive them to fight to the death in the absence of anywhere to run. The thought of surrender doesn’t occur to them. I wave Scrub forwards, letting him slowly walk down the length of the corridor with his power on full blast. A few bloody minutes later, and the corridor is completely clear. Weld looks like he’s about to be sick, would _be_ sick if he had the capacity.

Faultline looks us over, a corridor packed full of Irregulars, soldiers, monsters and our shadowy new follower. Behind her, the corridor is similarly full of Thanda fighters. The Morrigan drifts through the air before her, entirely unscathed among all the blood.

“We’re too tightly packed right now,” Faultline says by way of greeting.

“Yeah,” Weld agrees. “These corridors are doing us no favours.”

Faultline looks around the room for a moment, her expression hidden behind the featureless faceplate of her armour.

“This place is huge. The Morrigan can’t sense an end to it. I say we split up into two groups, taking different routes up. Palanquin and the Indian military, the Irregulars and the Thanda. That way each group has a counter against the Custodian.”

“Works for me,” Weld says, after a moment’s thought.

People start to shift around as best they can in the tight-packed corridors, forming into two teams of two factions each. Weld stops me, wrapping his hand around a tendril, before I can move across to the rest of Palanquin.

“Good luck,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Good luck yourself,” I say, enveloping his hand with my own. “This is your chance to save everyone, Weld.” I look over his shoulder at the Irregulars.

“Be the hero they need you to be.”

He smiles, a warm and reassuring look, before turning around and stepping back over to his team.

I smile back, all teeth and no finesse, and turn back to mine.


	116. Nemesis: 17.02

Distant gunfire echoes throughout the seemingly endless rows of bulky cells, the sound reverberating and layering back over itself to the point where it’s impossible to tell where it’s coming from. Besides me, Blasto is lost in thought. He’s tracking his combat menagerie, a little shy of two dozen cyclops, as they slowly but surely drive the mutants back. We can’t stop them, a lot of them have powers that can’t be stopped, but we can funnel them away from our group and the other. There’s more than enough building to go around.

Too much, from what the Morrigan can see, or, rather, what she can’t. Her telekinetic range is impressive. It increases in strength closer in to her, but at its extremities it’s decent enough to get a rough idea of objects, if not people. It’s a massive radius, a couple of kilometres at least, and yet she can’t see an end to this building. It just carries on, more ground than we could ever hope to clear. We’re like a bubble of safety surrounded by uncertainty, constantly surrounded on all sides by the invisible force of the Custodian, and whatever the fuck else Cauldron has in this place. Somewhere else, well out of our reach, the Irregulars and the Thanda are the same.

Still, it feels good to be back with the Crew again. The Morrigan is back in the middle of our little bubble, surrounded by the surviving Indian army grunts. We’re back in our old role; the smash and grab types who hit hard and fuck off before the bastards know they’ve been hit. Except this time, we push through rather than pulling back, and let the army mop up anyone we’ve missed.

Not that we’ve actually _met_ anyone aside from a few mad mutants. Even those are few and far between by now, with Blasto’s Cyclops warning us off the worst of them and driving the weaker ones away. The place is maddeningly identical; the same bare-concrete corridors lined with the same heavy-duty cells and lit by the same utilitarian lights. It’s almost inhuman in how few signs of life there are: no mysterious stains from wear and tear, no signs, posters, spots of paint. There’s not even a lick of dust.

“Shamrock,” I speak, breaking the tense silence. “These cells like you remember?”

“No,” she answers without looking back, keeping her eyes – and her gun – trained down the length of the corridor. “Mine was smaller, and it didn’t have a door. Just a glass wall and a strip of white paint across the ground.”

“That doesn’t seem like a very strong cell,” Newter says, eyeing one of the heavy steel doors nervously.

“It didn’t have to be. People would smash through the glass, then get beaten back into their cell by the Custodian. After that, it’d sweep up the broken glass but it wouldn’t replace the window. They’d learned not to cross the white line.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” I sigh out loud.

“These cells must have been for the Subjects who were too far gone to learn the lesson,” Faultline muses. “Or the ones who were too dangerous to keep in an unsecure cell.”

“But why build that cell in the first place?” I ask, turning back to look at the boss. “What’s the point in mocking them like that? Dangling escape right in front of their faces?”

“Efficiency?” Faultline muses. “If you don’t need a door, then why build one?”

I shake my head.

“I don’t buy it. I mean, _look_ at this fucking place. It’s _huge_. They couldn’t skimp a little on the concrete and put some proper doors on their cells?”

“It’s psychological,” Shamrock murmurs, before continuing in an even quieter tone. “It certainly broke _me_ …”

I’m not so sure. This place… there’s something about it, sure, but I don’t think there’s any malice in it. It’s bare concrete, utilitarian cells, _sure_ but there’s nothing deliberately intimidating. It’s not like the Pagans’ den, for starters. It’s characterless; secure enough cells to keep in the prisoners but nothing beyond that. It’s pure function over form, but that still doesn’t explain a cell without a door.

“I’ve found something,” a voice crackles in over my voice box, sounding a lot like my own but twisted in its pitch, accent and tone. The Morrigan, speaking through me.

“What is it?” Faultline asks.

“Five hundred metres to your left and twenty up, two floors higher than you are now. A series of rooms that deviate from the standard pattern. It looks like a partially enclosed compound within the structure. I can’t discern a purpose.”

“It’s better than endless cells,” Faultline says as she calls us to a halt.

“Labyrinth,” she turns to Elle, hanging at the back of our group next to Blasto and his girl, “can you make us a way up?”

Elle looks around for a second, the slightly-polished surface of her mask reflecting the overhead lights, before she nods.

“Sure.”

Immediately the light shifts into flickering flames that creep along the walls, as concrete turns into charred wood and wrought iron that curls upwards in a spiralling staircase.

“Can you make it wider?” Faultline asks, with a pointed look at myself and the first of Blasto’s cyclops rounding the corner. Labyrinth nods, and the staircase widens even further, pushing back the walls of the corridor and spilling into the cells around us. We clamber up the staircase, the flimsy and burnt wood impossibly supporting our weight, and emerge into another set of identical corridors.

Faultline turns at the top, looking between Elle and the first of the Indians starting to make their way up. Eve sees her concern immediately, and steps forwards.

“We’ll stick with her until everyone’s up, then close off the path and bring her back to you.”

Faultline nods, as impassive as ever beneath her helmet, even though I know she’s grateful, and waves Gregor over to wait with them. The rest of us press on ahead, letting the Morrigan guide us down the right corridors as the first of the Cyclops start to clamber up through the burning tower, immediately sprinting to reform the perimeter.

It doesn’t take us long to find the place. For one thing, it’s an unnatural break in the monotony of endless corridors. This floor doesn’t even have cells; just a whole bunch of empty rooms waiting to be filled. I think it’s meant for more compounds like the one we’re going for; blank rooms that can be chopped and changed into whatever Cauldron needs them to be. It’s a practical idea, I suppose, but once again the scale of it all is absurd.

The compound itself is more visible through what isn’t there than what is; rooms and intersections have been walled off almost completely, with only a single entrance behind an almost disappointingly mundane office door. But we’re not taking any chances, so Faultline cuts through the entire doorframe rather than risking the handle.

Inside is an almost confusingly mundane reception, complete with a few comfy chairs for people to wait on and a spot for a couple of receptionists behind a long wooden desk that curves into the wall, not accessible to the people waiting. About the only thing weird about it is the décor.

It’s white, all of it. The floor is all spotless white tiles that fit together without any obvious grout, the bare concrete walls have been painted white and the ceiling is all glass, hiding some smooth pattern of lights that gives the impression that the whole ceiling is glowing. Even the furniture is white. It gives the whole room a sterile, sanitary look, but it’s not odd in and of itself. It’s a lot like I imagined a corporate bitek lab would look like.

No, it’s not the colour that has me confused.

It’s empty, but it doesn’t look like it was emptied in a hurry. There are no overturned chairs, no abandoned belongings beyond a few pieces of miscellaneous stationary that any office will inevitably accumulate over time. It looks deserted, sure, but like it’s been closed, not abandoned.

I find my eyes drawn to just about the only splash of colour left in this place; a calendar on the wall behind the reception. Beneath a picture of a snowy landscape, the calendar says it’s December. That can’t be right. I stretch over the desk, pluck the calendar off the wall and close it shut to check the year.

Two thousand and nine.

“This place has been shut for a long time,” I say to Faultline as I hand over the calendar.

“The twenty third of December, two thousand and nine,” she muses, looking down at the calendar and idly flicking back through the months. “The day the Simurgh attacked Madison.”

“No way that’s a coincidence,” Newter says.

“Well we’re not going to find much if we just stay in reception,” I say, pushing open a door on the other end of the room. The corridors of the compound are the same complete white, but with a few pieces of coloured text on the wall pointing the way to different rooms. I push open a door at random to find an extensive office full of little cubicles, each with a computer sitting in front of a desk. Depressingly boring, all things considered.

I shut the door, continuing to pace cautiously through the corridors. A sign labelled ‘surgery’ takes me to a medical operating room filled with gear that, while not cutting edge by _my_ standards, is still leagues ahead of anything I’ve seen on Bet. Next to it is a simpler room, little more than a gurney in an open space, with one-way glass to let observers look into the room. If I had to guess, I’d say this was where they administered the vials. Or, _one_ of the places.

There are more rooms a few doors down, offices probably belonging to the senior types, the important doctors if this was a hospital or the important researchers if this was a lab. Given the sheer amount of office space, I’m inclined to think the latter. My suspicions are confirmed as I find a room simply labelled ‘archives’.

“Over here!” I shout, drawing the others’ attention. “This one looks promising!”

I push open the door, or, at least, I _try_ to. It’s locked, so I push harder until the hinges pop off and the whole door falls backwards into the room. The archive itself is just as well lit as the rest of this place, which makes me wonder just who’s responsible for keeping the lights on around here. It’s not what I was expecting; instead of server stacks and computers, most of the space is taken up by wall-to-wall cabinets, with a single computer at the far end of the hall.

It’s fucking _baffling_ , and I find myself looking over the mysterious cabinets. Each one has a label with months and years written on them, going back as far as nineteen eighty-seven. I pick a cabinet at random and pull it open, forcing the rudimentary lock apart with my claws. Inside are about four dozen brown folders, each with a date and a number on them. I flick one open, revealing page after page of medical information.

“Why’d they store all this on paper? Secrecy?”

“No,” Faultline says, cutting open another draw with her power. “They just didn’t digitise until nineteen ninety-three, by the look of things.”

_Huh_. I guess the idea of paper records aren’t as strange to people who’ve only had computers for a few decades. I start flicking through one of the folders, skimming through page after page of routine medical documents. Routine, that is, except for what they’re describing.

Each file is a Subject, a record of the vials administered to them as part of a massive scheme of trial and error. They can make the vials, but they don’t know how to make them well. For that, they need people, expendable test subjects who nobody will miss. Each of them was given a vial, a blend of different formulae outlined in clear percentages. Most of the files, the _early_ ones, end the same way; the subject dead, whether just dropping dead the moment the liquid touches their lips or dying in agony as their body mutates into shapes that cannot support itself.

I look over at Shamrock, at a vial cape with no obvious mutations, and think about all the Protectorate vial capes who’ve only just started to be discovered. How many of those mutants downstairs did it take to get the balance right? On the other end of the room, Faultline powers up the computer and starts to flick through a database oif every test since nineteen ninety-three. _Thousands_ of tests, on thousands of victims torn from their home.

“The forms change after Madison,” Faultline says as she skims through the terminal. “They become more streamlined, less explanatory. They’ve cut out the section listing the observing staff members.”

She pauses, drumming her fingers across the keyboard.

“When Matryoshka described the facility she was kept in, she mentioned dozens of researchers and guards.”

“While I only actually _saw_ two or three staff members in my entire time here,” Shamrock says, catching on.

“They must have downsized after the Simurgh’s attack. She hit their research division, so they cut away the researchers. Reduced their staff to only essential personnel.”

“I wonder what that means,” I muse. “You think they set them up with a cushy retirement package on another Earth or just took them out back and shot them?”

“I don’t think this place _has_ a back,” Newter quips back. “It’s too damn big.”

I snort, turning back to the files, before I hear a shout from the corridors outside.

“Hello?! Anyone out there?!”

Blasto’s voice. I smile; this medical shit’ll be like Christmas for him.

“In here!”

I turn to look at the doorway. That’s what saves me, as a black sphere bounces off the frame and flies into the room. I move faster than thought, spearing a tendril into one of the immense cabinets and hauling it down, batting back the grenade with a second tendril. I trap the sphere beneath the mass of metal and paperwork a second before it detonates, a few stray pieces of shrapnel piercing my hide even as the rest of the blast is successfully smothered.

I hear voices shouting briefly in Russian, as Shamrock flings her own grenade out into the corridor. Faultline’s up in a flash, kicking back her chair as blades spring out of her forearms. She ignores the door, even as Shamrock moves up to cover it, instead simply cutting through the wall into the next room over. I wait for Shamrock to fire a burst before pushing the wall down, letting the deafening shots mask the sound of my movements, and find myself in a toilet, six cubicles on the wall opposite and the shattered remains of sinks and mirrors around my feet.

There’s a man in the doorway, dressed in a camouflaged uniform and holding a rifle in his hand. He turns at the sound, bringing his rifle up, but I don’t give him the chance. I swipe a hand down, scooping up a large chunk of ceramic and throwing it right at him. The force of the throw has him staggering backwards, but his helmet saves his skull. Not that it makes a difference as I lash out with a tendril, easily cutting through his body armour. Out on the other side of the corridor, I can see a few more of them, sheltering from Shamrock’s withering fire in another doorway.

They open fire on me, sending me lurching back into the doorway as a few bullets catch on my plates, and a few more dig into my skin. Faultline hits the wall beside me, retracting her blades and pulling a grenade off her belt. She pulls the pin out with her thumb, throwing it out into the corridor after a word of warning to us and ducking back into cover.

There’s a deafening bang and a flash of blinding light, as the Earth-One made stun grenade goes off in the corridor. Faultline, Spitfire and Shamrock’s armour automatically shut down all audio once the pin was pulled, but Newter had to put his hand over his ears to be unaffected. I just grinned and bore it.

Newter’s out into the corridor the moment after the detonation, leaping across to incapacitate the soldiers while they’re still stunned. There’re a few tense moments of silence before he re-emerges, grinning like a loon.

“Five badass commandoes, down for the count,” he smiles at Faultline, who’s kneeling down by the corpse at my feet and pawing over the guy’s uniform.

“Red Gauntlet,” she says, pulling a patch off the man’s sleeve. “This could be a problem.”

“Morrigan”, I speak out loud, trusting that she’s listening. “Tell whoever you’re with that there are enemy soldiers on this floor. Red Gauntlet.”

“Understood, Khanivore,” her response comes instantly. “Colonel Andino and Eve are closing in on the compound now, with the rest of your team.”

“Let’s move,” Faultline says as she rises to her feet. “We need to link back up with the others. Khanivore, can you…” she looks into the other room, trailing off.

“I’ll catch up,” I say, nodding and watching as they disappear off down the corridor. I step into the opposite room, another block of office cubicles, and look at the five sleeping bodies sprawled across the ground. One of them is a Parahuman. A minor one compared to some I’ve seen, but that voice power could fuck us up in future. I haul my two intact tendrils back and drive them into two of the soldiers, right through their hearts. I repeat the process with the remaining three, until I’m the only thing left alive in the room.

It’s better that Newter and Spitfire didn’t see this, but I _will_ get my hands bloody if it means keeping them safe.

I lope back down the corridors, the almost eerie silence now replaced by deafening gunfire. An entire wall in front of me suddenly shifts into red brickwork before bursting into flames, as Labyrinth takes control of the entire area. The flames part in front of me, forming a corridor through the flaming mess of charred bodies right to where the rest of Palanquin are sheltering at the edge of Labyrinth’s range.

Eve is there too, taking shots down the corridor with a pistol. She looks at me as I approach and stops firing so I can hear her talk.

“You’re good at holding your breath, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

A sphere takes shape in her hand, an apple-sized ball of swirling gases.

“They’re dug in like ants, but they’re not wearing any CBRN gear. I’m going to flood the corridors with gas and send in the Cyclops. You’re welcome to join them.”

I grin, flashing her a mouth full of jagged teeth. She takes that as agreement, waiting for an Indian soldier to lay down a withering amount of covering fire before she briefly steps into the corridor and hurls the ball down its length. It travels further than it should, splitting apart on the far wall and immediately filling the corridor with a thick green gas.

I bound after it like a dog chasing a ball, as the gunfire drops off entirely and the corridor is filled with screams and pained shouts. I hit their lines like a freight train, cutting through the soldiers as they scrabble about for air. I catch brief glances of Cyclops moving through the mass, visible only when the light of their muzzle flash illuminates their silhouettes.

Within moments, the screaming has dropped off entirely and the gas starts to dissipate. I’m left standing amidst dozens of bodies, Cyclops pacing among them with insect-like movements and finishing off anyone we missed with brief shots. Our own soldiers start to come down the corridor, accompanied by Palanquin and Blasto. We’re closing in on one point, getting ready to move up. The last thing we want is for Cauldron to pin us down.

Labyrinth spins up another staircase, another burning tower rising up out of the concrete to carry us upwards. We move up the flame-wreathed steps, with myself and the Cyclops taking point, until suddenly we’re stepping out into another corridor, four floors up.

Instantly I’m surrounded by shocked shouts in dozens of different languages, spreading down the corridor like wildfire. This hallway is lined with cells as well, but there’re no heavy steel bulkheads here. They’re open, with only a white strip of paint dividing the cell from the corridor. Standing right in the middle of it all, I can clearly see the cells’ occupants reacting to our arrival. Some flinch back from fear, others step forward curiously. Some do neither, simply watching us with weary resignation clear in their eyes.

That’s when it hits me.

I’ve been thinking about this place all wrong. These aren’t prisoners; they’re subjects. Lab rats in an experiment that’s been going on for decades. Prisoners get locked up and forgotten about; they have no other _use_. But these people? Well, they’re not people, are they? They’re resources, the products of an industrial-scale machine that produces tools to be used.

I’m standing where the Doctor herself would stand and I can see clearly into each and every cell. I don’t have to pull back a door, don’t even need to slide aside a grill. I can assess them at a glance, catalogue their uses at a brisk walk. It’s efficient, convenient.

The lack of walls isn’t to break the inmates; it’s not about them at _all_. After all; they’re just tools waiting for use.

And who cares how a tool feels about _anything_?


	117. Nemesis: 17.03

Not one of the inmates crosses the little white line dividing their cells from the corridor. They don’t let their toes touch it, don’t do so much as lean out into the corridor itself. Even the most interested of them, the ones who are craning and trying to get a better look at the burning tower that’s just risen out of he ground, don’t dare run the risk of being beaten back into their cells.

Most of them are dressed in utilitarian grey outfits, like prisoner uniforms but sized to fit irregular bodies. Some of them, the most mutated, aren’t wearing the uniforms at all, or they’re just wearing enough to preserve what little modesty they may have left. There’s no standard to the mutations, no discernible pattern. I can see shock expressed on wildly different faces, fear in inhuman stances and extraneous limbs trembling.

They’re scared of us.

“Alright, ladies and gentlemen!” Newter takes a step forwards, sweeping his arms out to take in the whole corridor. “The cavalry’s arrived! Time to blow this joint!”

His cocky stride falters as the prisoners just stare silently at him. The mood has started to shift away from surprise, towards weary resignation or even slight dread.

“It won’t work,” one of the prisoners says, a gaunt-looking figure with eyes sunk deep into his sockets. “It never does. You can’t leave your cell for long. It won’t…”

He trails off, staring in confusion at Faultline and the first of the Indian soldiers making their way into the corridor, at the identical Cyclops moving upwards. I reach out, grabbing him by the scruff of his prison uniform, and throw him out into the corridor.

“What’s this?” I ask, leaning in until my face is centimetres from his own. “No hidden Custodian, forcing you back into your cell? I think you’ve got the wrong end of the stick, mate.”

“This isn’t a breakout!” I shout as I move up onto two legs. “We aren’t escapees! We’re your fucking liberators! But it’s up to you to take the first step!”

They don’t listen to me at first, and I can’t exactly blame them. But, as more and more soldiers start to come up through the tower, as Faultline and Shamrock and Spitfire show that there’s more than just Case-53s with us, the little doubts at the back of their mind become harder and harder to ignore.

It starts slow; a twitchy girl with insectoid limbs edging a limb out past the line. She shudders then, as nothing happens, suddenly springs out into the corridor in a burst of movement, her smooth limbs skittering slightly along the concrete. She laughs, a chittering sound that still manages to convey very real, very _human_ , joy.

And with that, the floodgates are opened. More people start to step out of their cells, some rushing out while others take time to savour the moment, or hesitate uncertainly. The corridor is suddenly filled by dozens of cheers, shouts and sobs as the former prisoners are hit by waves of uncontrollable emotions.

It’s such a small step to take, such a flimsy obstacle to overcome, but it means everything to them.

Of course, now that they’re free, they don’t seem to know what they’re doing with themselves. If they’d stepped out on their own, they’d have probably picked a random direction and run off in it, but, with us here, they’re all sticking close. We’re the hot new thing, and they’re watching to see what we’ll do next. Some of them don’t content themselves with simply looking; a wave of people rushing forwards to embrace us, wrapping their arms around everyone they can get their hands on and shouting thanks in a dozen different languages.

Behind me, six soldiers form a wall to keep the press of the crowd away from most of us, but the rest aren’t so lucky. Shamrock’s looking distinctly uncertain at the people around her, Spitfire’s stance is a lot more nervous and Newter, now clinging to the ceiling, is looking downright apologetically at the sleeping forms of the five people who tried to hug him. There’s even a couple of people, the worst mutated among them, who’ve sidled up to me.

“Listen up!” Faultline shouts, her voice cutting through the din of the crowd. “This is still a hostile area, and the Custodian isn’t Cauldron’s only asset! We’ve already encountered a platoon of soldiers, and I doubt that small force is all they have!”

Our own soldiers push forwards, together with Gregor, creating an opening of clear space around Faultline. Hardly anyone can see her, with all the monsters in the way, but her presence adds a little metaphorical height to her words. Or it might be that they’re all confused as fuck and willing to listen to just about anyone…

“Right now, we’re a target.” Faultline doesn’t need to shout anymore; she has their attention. “We’re packed into this corridor, and not too far from where they last saw us. This place is huge; we need to _use_ that. As it stands, we’re a target. None of us can fight without bumping into a dozen other people. We need to disperse; _you_ need to disperse.”

She pushes past our lines, walking among the crowd with only Gregor following behind her as protection.

“Right now, it wouldn’t take much for Cauldron to contain us. I need you to become ungovernable. Disperse, free anyone else you can find, and turn a small escape into a full-scale riot. My team has a member who will keep the Custodian away from you for as long as you’re in her radius. The Cyclops are moving out to the extremity of the perimeter, but they can’t be everywhere at once. If any of you get hit, you’ve gone too far.”

Shouts answer her words, as the Case-53s start to turn and run deeper into the compound. Whether they actually understood her language or just followed the crowd is another question entirely. Either way, we’ve set the ball rolling now. The riot will spread on momentum alone, language be damned.

But not everyone will join it. A few of the Case-53s have stuck around, preferring the safety we represent to the violence and uncertainty of the rioters. Fautlline’s taken charge of them, asking after powers and assigning Indian Army minders to make sure they won’t be getting in our way. There’s no telling _how_ they’ll react in a fight, after all.

They’re not the worst of it, though. They’re just looking for safety, rather than revenge or escape, and that’s okay. The worst ones are the ones who’re still in their cells, the ones who’ve chosen a familiar prison over uncertain escape. The ones who’re so beaten down, so broken, that even with an army standing in front of them they still won’t stand up for themselves.

I walk over to one cell and look at the diminutive figure huddled up in one corner. She’s a child, somewhere between twelve and fourteen if I had to guess, with webbed fingers and toes, and what looks like irregular patches of fish scales across what little skin her utilitarian jumpsuit shows. Her eyes are screwed shut and she’s rocking back and forth.

There’s still a glass wall in her cell; she’s never even _tried_ to escape.

I squat down in front of the cell, so I’m not looming, and tap a claw on the glass. No response, except for a shiver that runs through her body. So, she can hear us, and she can probably see us, she’s just _choosing_ not to. She’s pulled back, turned this little cell into armour against a world she doesn’t want to see.

“I bet you think you’re pretty safe in that cell, right?” I ask, not particularly caring if she can understand me. “It’s armour against the world. It keeps the Custodian out, maybe the glass muffles the sounds of the other inmates, and it keeps uncertain and scary things like me as far away as possible. Maybe it even feels comfortable sometimes, like you’ve finally found somewhere you belong.”

I drag a claw down the glass, listening to the shrieking sound it makes. The others have already started to move, or to try and coax other wary inmates out into the corridors, but they’re not really a priority at the moment. Once we’ve dragged Cauldron to the gallows, it won’t matter if they chose to stay in their cells. They’ll have their freedom, whether they wanted it or not.

But it matters to me. Part of me wishes it didn’t, that I could go back to the way it was before, but it does and I can’t.

“I get it. That might surprise you, but I do. You’re not going to open your eyes, because that would mean acknowledging I’m _real_ , but, if you did, you’d see a monster. A real big scary one. You’d probably wonder what I’ve got to be afraid of, why I’d need to hide from anything. But this body is my armour. It’s how I hid away from a world I didn’t want to see.”

I stand up, slowly, carving intricate patterns into the glass.

“But the world doesn’t stop existing just because you can’t see it. Sooner or later, something comes along. It won’t come quick, but that won’t matter. You’re not _looking_. You can’t _see_. From your perspective, it’ll be a bolt from the blue. One moment, you’re safe, you’re comfortable. You’re armoured in your fucking ignorance. The next…”

In a single, rapid, movement I bring my fist back and drive it forwards, smashing through the glass window in a single blow and sending fragments flying all over the cell. The Case-53 screams, writhing on the floor like she’s in agony, even though none of the glass even touched her.

“The world collapses around you. All that armour falls away and you suddenly realise that all it’s done is leave you unprepared for reality. You’re left, naked and alone, in the world you ignored. You reach for the old comfort of your armour, but it’s gone. The illusion has been shattered. You’ll try to cling to it anyway, but, in the end, the only thig you can do is step out into the real world.”

I say one last thing to her before turning away, dropping to all fours, and pacing down the corridor towards the rest of Palanquin.

“It’s just a question of how long it takes.”

Most of the others have moved on, there’s just a couple of army guys and Case-53 stragglers left behind. I start to lope down the now-empty hallways, long strides making short work of the distance. All around me, I can hear distant shouts echoing through the corridors. No gunfire. Not yet, at least. It’s only a matter of time before Red Gauntlet tracks us down, or whatever else Cauldron has tucked away in this place.

I must’ve made a wrong turn somewhere; there are more soldiers around me than I was expecting, and no Palanquin capes. Still, I think I’ll give it a little longer before I start asking Morrigan for directions. There are Case-53s around as well, some looking nervous while others are angry, rushing off any which way in search of someone to free or something to kill. The nervous ones actually look a little reassured as they watch the soldiers stepping aside to clear a path for me. I mean, I guess it makes sense, but I’m definitely not used to being reassuring.

Something _twitches_ inside me, a spasm that starts in my chest and spreads throughout my body. It doesn’t hurt – _can’t_ hurt, really – but I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the sharp ache my body feels in place of pain. I rise up onto my legs, lean heavily against one of the walls of the cells, and start to cough with loud, hacking noises. Chunks of bloody viscera fall from my throat onto the pristine concrete floor. In the midst of it all is a single strip of glinting metal, a piece of shrapnel.

With the obstruction removed, I can feel my innards – part of them, at least – start to slowly seal off what damage they can. I descend into burbling coughs, expelling the blood that’s spilled into my lungs, as I clamp down on too-damaged arteries and trigger the release of rapid-acting coagulants in the ones that can still be saved.

“You look like shit,” someone says, off to my right. I look up, groggily, and wait for my eyes to come back into focus. It’s Eve, leaning against the entrance to the cell. Her brown leather robes are scorched and ripped in places, revealing a close-fitting suit of organic armour with visible muscles twitching as she faintly moves.

I cough out another lode of blood – the last, thank fuck, and push off the wall once I’m sure I’m not going to fall over. I start to release a few stimulants into my bloodstream, to keep me on my feet.

“I feel like shit.”

“You look alright, apart from the missing bits. And the blood, of course.”

I bring a hand up to wipe away the blood from around my mouth as best as possible. I can’t see it, but I think all I managed is to spread it around a little more.

“Over the past few hours, I’ve fallen out of a helicopter, been shot at, stabbed, dismembered, had grenades go off in my face, shot again, and gently cooked by an electric sphere. Under the circumstances, I think I’m holding up quite well.”

I can’t see much of her face, but her lips are pursed in concern.

“Are you going to be able to carry on, or should I find Rey?”

I shake my head.

“Maybe if we had the time or the equipment. But no, I’ve seen his work. He’s good, but he’s more along the lines of a bioengineer than a surgeon. Great at spinning DNA together, not so great at battlefield surgery. Besides, I’m hard to kill.”

Already my body is starting to function again, diverting blood flow around the most damaged areas as multipleredundant heart chambers and secondary and tertiary arteries pick up the slack. I’ll pay for it later, but for now I’m fit to fight. It’s the last legacy of my pit fighting days; a system that’s meant to compensate for anything in-the-moment in the safe knowledge that there’s Ivrina’s dexterous hands and the warm embrace of the tank waiting at the end of the fight.

“Well, if you’re sure, I need to head for the front,” Eve says as she pushes herself off the wall. “If you could come with me, I’d appreciate it. There are a lot of… prisoners out and about, and they might be a little calmer if they see someone who looks like them with us.”

“Sure, no worries. Where _is_ Blasto, by the way?”

She’s hurrying down the corridor, but she turns back to answer me.

“Closer to the centre. His brain is working as the network hub for our Cyclops perimeter, so he doesn’t need to be near the front and I don’t _want_ him near the front.”

She continues to stride through the corridors as we pass more and more Case-53s who’re out of their cells and running loose. Some of them are even trying to persuade the reluctant stragglers to leave their cells as well, with varying degrees of success. Still no sounds of any fighting at all…

There _has_ to be cameras, right? I mean, I can’t see any, but I can’t believe Cauldron would delegate all their security to the Custodian. They have to know roughly where we are, if only by looking for the blind spots in the Custodian’s power. Have they simply never had to deal with a mass breakout before?

Up ahead, an argument seems to have broken out between two factions of Case-53s. The corridor is packed full of people, shouting in dozens of different languages. I’ve got no idea what started it, or what’s keeping it going, but the few soldiers in the corridor are looking a little overwhelmed.

Time for a little bit of diplomacy.

I start to barge my way through the crowd, quite literally throwing my weight around to force a path through the crush. As I get closer and closer to the front, Eve following closely behind me, I start to get brief glimpses past the crush of a figure kneeling on the ground. His back’s to me, but I can see a name printed across the shoulders of his grey prison jumpsuit.

Someone who took the same deal Shamrock did, and they’re probably arguing over whether or not they should kill him.

I’m getting closer and closer now but, even at max volume, there’s no way my dinky little voice box could cut through the din of the crowd. I could roar, but that might be counterproductive. So I keep pushing forwards, hoping that maybe I can get this crowd to keep moving again. It’s callous, but we need as many people ready to fight as possible, and these ones are just sitting ducks.

“What’s going on up there?” I hear Eve ask from behind me.

I’m about to answer when I suddenly hear the distant sound of broken concrete. The crowd hears it too, stilling for half a second before a figure smashes through the ceiling at the end of the corridor, right over the captured collaborator. For a brief moment, the air is filled with concrete dust and the crowd starts to heave and press around me. I stretch upwards, craning my neck to try and see the figure over the crowd.

The first thing I see, before the dust has even cleared, is a flash of light reflecting off metal. As the dust cloud settles, more details start to become clearer. A helmet in the ancient Greek style, fully enclosed except for the eyes, one brown, the other dark pink. She’s wearing a bodysuit, with gloves, knee-length boots and a slit black skirt. A heavy cape, midnight black, falls from her shoulders down to her ankles. A logo covers much of her chest, a tower in light grey. She’s hovering two feet off the ground.

I reach behind me and shove Eve into a cell, pushing her back with a tendril as she immediately springs to her feet and tries to figure out what’s going on. With a bit of luck, she won’t have seen her. With a bit of luck, she’ll think this is just a corridor full of escaped Case-53s. Assets, to be returned.

“Return to your cells,” she says, in a clear and even tone. She doesn’t need to shout; her entrance has silenced any and all argument from the crowd. They’re watching her in awe and fear, trapped in this corridor by the press of their own bodies.

Behind me, I’m sure some are taking this opportunity to slink back to their cells, but the ones in front of me have no such option. They’re stuck in the group, so they’ll move with the group consensus. I can see it all up and down the corridor. It’s in the way they’re standing, the way the look at her or back behind them towards escape. A lot of them want to run, I can see that clearly. But not enough.

They don’t know who she is, and I can’t tell them without tipping her off that I’m not just another inmate. My only hope is that she was too distracted by Tattletale and Labyrinth and Faultline that she failed to notice me that morning in Brockton Bay, when we broke the barrier between worlds.

They don’t know who she is, but they’ve had their first taste of true freedom and they’re not going to let it go. They’re fuelled by rage, hunting through these corridors for a target they can vent years of captivity onto. Gradually, the mood of the crowd shifts, leaning forward rather than back and tensing in preparation of a fight.

I tense too, but for a different reason.

The moment she moves, so do I. She flies upwards, barely a twitch, and I leap to the side, pushing through the crowd and falling into the cell beside me, barely managing to avoid crushing Eve. Less than a millisecond later, a grey-black blur shoots past the cell as it tears through the Case-53s in a storm of blood and viscera that coats everything around it. Less than a millisecond later, and the corridor is quiet. She’s gone on to find fresh hunting grounds, to sweep this place room by room until they’ve broken the back of this little riot.

Less than a millisecond later, the screams start up. I haul myself to my feet as blood sticks to my skin, flowing down my armoured plates and dropping to the floor. I stagger out into the corridor, looking up and down the charnel house of gore filled with the dismembered dead, the screaming wounded and the survivors, their eyes wide with shock and fear.

Alexandria.

She’s supposed to be _dead_.


	118. Nemesis: 17.04

I’m no stranger to blood. I’ve shed more than enough in my time, both my own and the blood of others. I’m no stranger to death either, not anymore. Jessica might be the first person I ever killed, but it’s hard to rationalise that when I was stuck in the pit. I was fighting for my life, so I fought to kill. Even if the thing I was actually killing was just a brainless puppet.

Killing Jessica, killing Dicko, that didn’t feel any different. It was every bit as emotional as fighting in the pit; fuelled by the same feelings, the same hate. The same fear of death, even if it was more of an existential death than the one I risked in the pit. I killed, for the first time, but it felt like I’d killed eighteen times before. I thought that was how it was supposed to feel.

But then I fell into Palanquin’s arms, and I killed again. I killed a girl in Ohio, because she put a knife to Emily’s throat. That was different. It wasn’t fuelled by the same emotions. I’m not saying it wasn’t deliberate, but it was driven by instinct. I wasn’t in danger, but I saw an opening and I reacted accordingly.

Made a right royal mess of it, too. I still don’t know if I feel guilty about killing her, but I do feel guilty about the effect her death had on the others. I think that was the moment when I suddenly realised that I could make a life with these people, that I liked them for more than just providing me with a warm bed and the chance at a life longer than a couple of weeks. All it took was seeing them grow distant and wary around the monster they saw me as.

The monster I was.

I’ve killed since then, of course. I killed through carelessness during the ABB bombings, killed deliberately against the Pagans, the Abidjan warlords and against Cauldron’s mercenaries and monsters. They felt different, too. I didn’t hate them in the same way I hated Dicko, didn’t fear them the same way I feared the other Beasties in the pit. I hated them, if I hated them at all, because they were trying to kill my family. I feared them because they might succeed.

It’s a more dispassionate sought of killing. The threats are a little more distant, a little more abstract, and there’s less of an emotional connection with the act. It’s more pragmatic than anything else; a response to bigger threats and higher stakes. But this… this is something else.

I feel like I’m about to throw up, even though my nervous system no longer has that all-too-human response to horror. I panic, desperately trying to wipe off the blood that’s coated me from head to toe. It’s easier to look at the blood lining the walls, the floor. Easier by far than looking at the _people_.

Alexandria’s fast. She flew down the corridor in an instant, never mind that there were dozens of people in her way. Fast enough to cut through them to pulp flesh and bone in an instant. Fast enough that the people around her had their limbs severed fast enough that they were still standing, while the more resilient among them were flung down the corridor in a bloody mess.

She killed dozens in a single instant, but there wasn’t any emotion behind it. Even with my most callous kills, the unconscious Red Gauntlet mercenaries I executed, there was the fain sense of feeling that by doing this I was protecting my family. But her? If she’s protecting anything, it’s this whole fucking _organisation_ , this monument to humanity at her most clinical and detached, her most inhuman.

Get big enough and you stop seeing the people in the numbers.

And then the sheer weight of the screams around me snaps me back to reality, and I look and see the charnel house around me, see it reflected in every other corridor on this floor, see Palanquin in place of these nameless victims.

“Boss!” I transmit over the radio, screaming silently through my voice box. “Alexandria’s here, moving fast!”

Nothing but static answers me. Shit, I must be out of range. Fucking concrete screwing with my signal. Still, there’s one way that’ll always get through.

“Morrigan, Alexandria’s here. You need to tell the boss; I don’t care how. Carve a message into the fucking walls if you have to.”

“She’s aware,” Morrigan answers, her voice crystal-clear over the affinity link. “Working on a strategy now. In the meantime, gather as many strong capes as possible. Focus on strong defensive or offensive powers. I’ll direct you to Faultline’s position.”

“Got it,” I reply, as Eve pulls out her own radio besides me. She’s been talking to Blasto, his voice crackly but still just about audible.

“I’m using the Cyclops to distract her but it’s like flies going up against a fucking bug zapper. Faultline’s gathering everyone together, says she has a plan. For now, just go with that.”

She sends back a brief acknowledgement before clipping the bulky-looking radio back onto her costume and looking at me expectantly. Right, she couldn’t hear my end of the conversation. I listen to the sound of distant gunfire and panicked screaming for half a second before unceremoniously dropping to all fours and sprinting out into the corridors. There are survivors here, but they’re traumatised, broken.

Eve’s keeping pace with me, the muscle-suit of her armour compensating for and mirroring the movements of her legs, fed real-time information through the connector on her spine. I hurriedly relay what the Morrigan told me as I run, ducking through the corridors, and look for any large group of inmates. What I see are more charnel houses, more signs of Alexandria’s passing.

At the end of a distant corridor, I see a pair of cyclops flying backwards with jump-jets flaring, firing hundreds of rounds into the distance. A moment later, Alexandria zips past, her large cape the only reason I can see her so clearly, and the gunfire falls silent with the crack and pop of pulped flesh, broken bones, and shattered machinery.

I turn back, away from the carnage and into the more intact corridors, the ones Alexandria hasn’t yet reached. Hopefully, if Blasto can distract her enough, the ones she _won’t_ reach. Still, we don’t have a lot of time. There’s only so much Blasto can do to distract her, and he only has so many Cyclops.

We pass an Indian army unit sheltering in a couple of cells, who pick up their weapons and follow us after a few words from Eve in a language I don’t understand. She’s on her radio constantly, whenever she has the breath to speak, coordinating what few soldiers survived to make it this far. They can’t do anything against Alexandria, but they can join the hunt for Parahumans who can.

The next corridor has what I’m looking for; a few dozen inmates crowding along the length of a corridor. They’re huddled together, low to the ground, like by making themselves small and quiet they can avoid Alexandria’s notice. A furious argument is going on between a few of the more vocal inmates, even if it’s being spoken at a whisper. I recognise one of them as the bug girl who was the first to step out of her cell.

“It’s better than running,” she snaps back at a man with red carapace plates covering much of his body, “and it’s _definitely_ better than crawling back to our cells,” she turns on a boy with four smaller eyes, fixing him with a vicious glare.

“But she’ll kill us,” the kid whimpers back in a quiet voice.

“Maybe,” the bug girl replies, “but I’m sick of this. I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.”

Her accent sounds French, and she’s speaking like English isn’t her first language. Was it something she knew before, or did Cauldron teach it to her?

“We don’t have to die,” the man rumbles. He’s huge, dwarfing everyone else there at eight feet tall. “We could go down, or maybe along. This building has to end somewhere, and then we’re _free_.”

That’s my chance.

“You’re wrong,” I say, making no effort whatsoever to keep my voice down. Panic spreads through the group as they spot me, standing tall on two legs rather than huddling close to the ground with them. The boy spots Eve and the other soldiers around me and flinches a little, while bug girl’s face lights up with joy.

“We haven’t been able to find an end to this place,” I say by way of explanation. “Even if we had, you’d still be stuck. Each of you came from different worlds, and this place is no different. We had to force a way through, but that portal is closed now and we’re not likely to get the time to build another one. The only way out is up, to take control of this whole fucking tower.”

“We can’t beat her,” the man says, standing up to try and match my height with his own, slightly less impressive, stature. “She’s too powerful.”

“Oh, _I’m sorry_ ,” I say, sarcasm dripping from every word, “did you think this was going to be _easy_?”

I can only imagine how I must look to them; more monstrous than they are, drenched from crested head to taloned toes in blood and surrounded by soldiers.

“A little truth of the world you’ve probably picked up by now is that nothing worth doing is ever going to be _easy_. You want your freedom? It’s there, right in front of your fucking face. All you have to do is reach out and _take_ it.”

I stap forwards, away from the soldiers and towards the Case-53s, who’re slowly starting to rise to their feet. Don’t know if it’s because they’re actually listening to me or if they’ve just realised how fucking pointless it is. Don’t much care, either.

“Now, my boss has a plan. I’ve followed her through thick and thin, gone up against shit you wouldn’t even believe, and I trust her with my life. For that plan, we need soldiers. Anyone who can take a hit, anyone who can dish one out from a safe distance and anyone, anyone _whatsoever_ , who can set up a decent protective barrier.”

A few people start to shuffle towards me, but not nearly enough.

“It’s this or you go back to your cells. There’s no other option here. I’m not in you’re position, I’ve never _been_ in your position, but I know for a fact that I wouldn’t be happy with this small taste of true freedom.”

More people step forward. I think that’s everyone who thinks they stand a chance. It’s still not enough, but that’s something I can deal with.

“Right, second question. Are any of you fast movers?”

Bug girl practically leaps forwards, no doubt eager to have a chance to actually contribute to the fight.

“Great,” I flash her a grin. “I need you to go out and look for anyone else who can help. Tell them to follow the sounds of the fighting.”

“Compris, madame,” she says, grinning at me before her face contorts in a pained expression. Her back bulges outwards, carapace ripping apart her grey jumpsuit, before it splits and unfurls into four insectoid wings that stretch down to her ankles. She staggers, clutching her knees and breathing heavily.

“That looks like it hurt,” I say, faint concern creeping into my voice.

“Nothing worth doing is ever easy, right?” she says as the wings start to thrum and lift her off the ground.

“Right. Good luck, bug girl.”

“It’s Marie,” she starts to laugh, a light chuckle descending into something altogether more worrying. “It’s finally Marie again!”

“Sonnie,” I grin back at her. “Best of luck out there.”

“You’ll need it more than me,” she replies flippantly, before buzzing off down the corridor. I look over my force, about a dozen different Parahumans of various shapes and sizes. The big bulky guy is with them, much to my surprise, but I don’t make a point of calling him out for it. Whatever caused him to change his mind is his own business, not mine.

Instead, I reach inwards, and ask Morrigan to direct me to Faultline’s location.

She leads me through the labyrinthine corridors in an erratic route, guiding me around damaged sections of the structure, through crowds of Case-53s to swell the ranks of my followers and up and down staircases and slopes of rubble in a seemingly random pattern. All the while I hear Alexandria around me, breaking through concrete and steel like it isn’t even there and constantly chased by the whine engines, the sharp sounds of gunfire and the strange and esoteric noise of powers going off. To say nothing of the screams.

And then, suddenly, I round a corner and there’s Faultline, standing with her hands clasped behind her back and her head looking forwards into a long corridor. She’s surrounded by soldiers and case-53s, spread out throughout the cells behind her, leaving the corridor in front completely empty. Spitfire and Shamrock are with her, but there’s no sign of the rest of Palanquin.

“Faultline!” I cry out as I approach. “Am I glad to see you!”

“Khanivore,” she replies, sounding a little distracted. “Glad you could make it.”

“So, what’s the plan, boss?” I ask, trying not to let my desperation leak into my voice. We’re up shit creek and our only hope of escape is that Faultline’s managed to clobber together a paddle.

“We can’t win this outright, not without getting clever about it. Alexandria is too powerful for any of us except Scrub to damage her, but there’s no way she doesn’t know about him. She’ll avoid him if she can or, worse, actively target him.”

“And if we lose Scrub, we lose our ticket out of here.” I muse, frowning.

“Exactly. I have a plan, but right now we need to buy time. To contain Alexandria for as long as possible, even if we can’t stop her.”

“And how do we do that?”

Faultline doesn’t say anything, she just looks down the corridor. I take a half-step forwards, only to stop as Faultline puts her arm out to block me from going any further.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures. Morrigan, are you in place?”

“Yes, Faultline,” she speaks through my voice box. “The Cyclops are drawing her to me now. Impact in fifteen seconds.”

Faultline turns back, shouting to the assembled Parahumans and soldiers.

“Brace yourselves!”

I scrape my talons across the concrete floor, counting down seconds in my head. Nothing happens, at least not at first. There’s no warning, no sounds at all except for the faint noise of the distant fight.

And then the ground is ripped out in front of me, and the air is filled with a deafening avalanche of masonry as concrete floors and concrete walls are ripped free from their mountings to fly free through the air. The lights behind me flicker erratically, their cables cut loose and intermittently plunging the hallway into darkness.

The sheer mass of concrete starts to coalesce ahead of me, in the half-light and, as it pulls back, I start to see more rooms, more corridors to my left and right, then the same to my front. The Morrigan took every scrap of concrete in a sphere sixteen stories tall and as wide across and _pulled_ it all into an immense sphere of shifting concrete at the heart of the immense, spherical chamber.

Morrigan flies around the sphere, looking almost small next to the sheer mass of concrete, and shifts its form in response to Alexandria’s movements. It can’t hold her forever, even _I_ can see that, but it can delay her long enough for whatever else the boss has planned.

“Get ready!” Faultline shouts. “That sphere won’t hold forever! When it breaks, it’s down to you to keep her back long enough for us to spring the trap!”

A chorus of cheers meets her, our makeshift army high on adrenaline and with their fight or flight reflex kicking into high gear. Running is only an option in the most literal sense; these people don’t have any other choice than to fight, not if they want out.

I think I can see something moving on the other side of the chamber, well above us among the flickering lights of yet more endless corridors. More escapees?

No…

I barely have time to turn and shout “Red Gauntlet!” before a large-calibre bullet tears down the length of my cheek, almost dislocating my jaw. The response from our side is immediate but imprecise, as Parahumans and soldiers fire back at where they think the enemy is and others start to set up shields or barriers to reduce the amount of incoming fire we’re exposed to in the open corridors. Other inmates start to spread out into the chamber, leaping from floor to floor to get a better vantage point, or simply spread out so that we aren’t so densely packed.

Both sides are shooting into the darkness, lit by flickering electricity, muzzle flash, incandescent tracer rounds and brightly coloured powers. A soldier besides me fires a ricket launcher up at the Gauntlet soldiers, a burning streak that slams into the ground beneath them, breaking the already fragile surface and sending four mercenaries down into the pit.

But it’s not just bullets and bombs that are flying around, and the Gauntlet have capes as well. A soldier next to me gets hit by a faint projectile, so faint I doubt anyone with sight worse than mine would notice it, only to stagger a little. He moves like a puppet on a string, one hand keeping a grip on his rifle while the other pulls the pins off the four grenades strapped to his vest. I move without thinking, stepping behind the soldier and kicking him off the edge of the ledge barely a second before the grenades detonate far below us.

“Enemy Master!” I shout, as Marie flies to a stop beside me. She peers upwards, her human-like eyes replaced by compound insect ones.

“I see someone up there without a rifle,” she says. “Is that who you’re looking for?”

“Yeah,” I say, gingerly picking up a fallen soldier’s rifle and passing it to her. “See if you can kill them for me.”

She smiles and starts firing off into the distance. Slowly but surely, our weight of fire is gradually forcing the Gauntlet back. They have more guns, but we have far more powers. Even a few fast-moving Parahumans who’ve started to climb up the sides of the walls and attack them directly.

But then an immense crack rings throughout the chamber, and I suddenly remember the elephant in the room. Fractures start to spread across the surface of the sphere, smoothing themselves out as Morrigan uses her power to keep it steady, but it’s not working. Alexandria’s putting out fore force than her, damaging it faster than Morrigan can keep it together.

She bursts through the top of the sphere, which shatters into pieces that fly up to orbit Morrigan. Immediately Alexandria gets hit by dozens of different powers that buffet her around the space without noticeably damaging her. She moves to strike back against our firing lines, only to find her path blocked by Morrigan, who starts to duel her in mid-air.

Faultline steps back from where she’d been watching the fight, as something comes through on her radio.

“Khanivore, Red Gauntlet have found Labyrinth. I need to go and sort this out. You and Spitfire stay here and keep me informed.”

I just nod, as she turns and strides back through the corridors, taking about a dozen of our close-range Brutes with her. I can’t do shit against Alexandria, but I can keep an eye on those who can. I’m no leader, but they’re so lost and confused right now that I’m a bastion of sanity and reason in comparison.

Besides, there’s not much too it. Truth be told, our best can’t do shit to her either. The only one who can is Morrigan, and she’s holding most of Alexandria’s attention right now. As I watch, Alexandria barrels through the debris floating around her and delivers a punch that goes right through Morrigan, pulping her upper torso completely. She falls slightly, but the flesh knits itself back together in seconds.

The damage to the room is much more obvious. I don’t know what Morrigan has being doing to hold it all together, but it was interrupted for the smallest instance, long enough for the upper floors and the ceiling to start to sag and drop masonry onto the ground.

“The whole fucking compound’s going to come down on top of us!” I shout. “Morrigan, you need to stabilise it!”

“I’ll try,” she replies, her voice not showing any of the obvious strain she’s under as she ducks and weaves around Alexandria. Of course, it’s not a real voice. Just like mine.

The concrete sphere starts to reshape itself, forming a pillar stretching between the floor and the ceiling with immense buttresses anchoring it in place. Alexandria breaks through it in her attempts to kill the Morrigan, who’s unable to maintain enough telekinesis to both keep fixing the pillar and fighting off Alexandria.

_This isn’t working_.

“Boss, please tell me you’re about done. We can’t hold her for long, and I don’t know if we can beat Alexandria.”

“We’re not fighting Alexandria,” Faultline answers, gunfire in the background of her transmission. “Alexandria died in Brockton Bay, and Cauldron stole her braindead corpse. They took a Vegas Protectorate cape as well, a man named Pretender. He puppets living bodies. Alexandria had decades to get used to her powers, Pretender has had less than a month at most. That’s our advantage.”

I don’t get a chance to respond as a stray segment of the pillar is flung into the wall beside me, crushing a few of our people outright and wounding a dozen more. Still, they keep the fire up, pouring shot after shot towards Alexandria, never mind that most of them miss.

“Is it safe for you to be here?” Spitfire asks me. “I mean, isn’t the Morrigan using your brain to stay alive? Or sane?”

Something shifts in the battlefield, a momentary adjustment in Alexandria’s movements and a faint tilt of her head.

_She’s not just a brute_.

“Shields up!” I shout, and the people around me instinctively follow my order, throwing up energy shields and walls of ice or stone. One Cape even takes root, filling the corridor with iron-like bark. A second later, an incredible force slams against the barrier, shattering shields and buckling walls. We can’t take another hit like that.

“Run!” Spitfire shouts to me, but I’m already moving, sprinting down the corridors in a mad rush to escape.

“Need your trap now, boss! Alexandria’s figured out the link between me and the Morrigan!”

“Understood,” Faultline replies simply. “The Morrigan will direct you.”

She’s cold, clinical, detached, and I know why. I respond to stress by getting angry, acting on instinct, but the boss isn’t like that. When the going gets tough, she calms down and falls back on her long experience to see her through. She’s got a plan, and she knows the best way to keep me alive is to execute it flawlessly, or to scrap it and adapt on the fly.

Behind me, I can hear Alexandria breaking her way through, slaughtering every obstacle we can put in her way. She’s seen the path to victory too, to removing our most powerful cape and our countermeasure to the Custodian in a single strike. The only difference is that she’s faster than me, impossibly fast. Whatever Labyrinth’s put together… I hope it works.

It would be easier if I could hear her right behind me, chewing through the concrete. It would be easier to keep running, more motivating. But the moment she breaks through our barriers, she’ll be on me in less than a second. I probably won’t even see it coming. All I have to keep pushing me forwards is my own fear and the fear of what will happen to my family if I die here.

And then, I see it. Labyrinth’s construct. It’s almost underwhelming, just a lattice of wrought iron stretched across the corridor, but to me it’s beautiful, it’s hope and safety and reassurance all rolled into one. I sprint towards it, waiting for Labyrinth to peel apart the bars to let me through, but she doesn’t. I keep running anyway because I trust her with my life. Not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.

I’m three metres away from the bars, from safety, when Morrigan’s voice screams through my radio.

“Drop!”

I let my legs collapse underneath me, dropping to the floor and rolling onto my back to bleed off my momentum. A blur passes overhead, but it’s not Alexandria. Instead, Marie hovers over me for a split second, insectoid wings buzzing, and her face twists into a rictus of grim defiance before Alexandria barrels into her… _through_ her. That very same moment, the wrought iron bars suddenly turn a blinding white.

_Scrub_.

Alexandria can’t stop; she doesn’t have the time or the space. She flies straight and true, straight into the empty void between worlds. She’s gone in an instant, sliced, and vaporised by the brilliantly white lattice, still pure and untouched even though it’s surrounded by blood and insectoid ichor.

I haul myself to all fours, my lungs heaving with exertion and my legs twitching at the strain I just put them through. That doesn’t matter, though. Not when I can see Faultline on the other side of the fence, her helmet off and compassion clear to see on her face. Not when I’m standing in the remains of a woman who just gave up her life for me.

Fuck, I didn’t even _know_ her! Not really. Just a name and a face, one among the thousands in this inhuman place, among the hundreds who’ve already died. But she sacrificed herself, distracted Alexandria long enough to save my life and lead her into the trap. I would have done what she did for the Crew in a heartbeat, but for someone I don’t even know? Someone I’ve only just met?

She said she’d rather die on her feet than live on her knees, that nothing worth doing is ever easy. I guess now I know what that looks like, what it really _means_.

I’m not just doing this for Palanquin… for the _Crew_ anymore. It’s not an easy thing to admit, but nothing worth doing is ever easy.


	119. Nemesis: 17.05

“Sonnie, are you unharmed?”

The words sound distant, like I’m floating in the depths of the ocean while someone talks to me from the surface. I don’t have eyes for the Crew right now, can’t really hear them, can’t make sense of their words. I’m wrapped up in my own head, in my own little world where there’s just me, the eviscerated chunks of corpse at my feet and the blinding white of the weapon we used, still shaped like the lattice of iron bars it was before Scrub pushed his power into it.

“ _Sonnie_ ,” Faultline says, sharper this time. Sharp enough to cut through the fog around my mind and drag me back to reality. “Are you injured?”

I can’t help it; I start to laugh. A heaving movement through my lungs that pulls on cracked bones in my skeleton and exoskeleton, a dull ache rising and falling with each heaving lungful of air.

“I’m injured, yeah…” I lean to one side and spit, so it doesn’t land in her remains. A tooth comes out with it. “But I’m still fit to fight. Not like there’s any other option?”

“Right,” Faultline replies, making no effort to hide her doubts. I can barely see her past the glow of the lattice of blindingly white bars.

“Did you know her?” she asks, looking down at the body at my feet.

“Not…” I sigh. “Not really. Not in any way that counts. That should make it easier, right? I didn’t really know her, so it should be easier to deal with it, right?”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

It used to be…

“So how do I get around this?” I ask through the divide between us. “A portal can’t be moved once it’s been made, right?”

“Right,” Faultline sighs, “but it’s worse than that. I told Labyrinth to make it as high and as wide as she could, then to fill in the gaps. If it were a solid wall, we could juggle the portals around to bring you onto this side but, as it stands…”

“I’d end up carving myself into chunks if I stepped through it,” I sigh. “Guess we’re splitting up. I’ll head back, see if I can track down Spitfire or any survivors of our force. I’ll send Morrigan your way. That way we can stay in touch even if the radios go to shit again.”

“Alright,” Faultline nods. I turn to leave, only to stop in my tracks.

“Sonnie…” she says, and I turn back to look at her. “Stay safe.”

“You too, Melanie.”

Her head tilts a little. I can’t see her face beneath the visor, but I think she’s smiling.

I turn back from her and start to pace down the corridors. For the first time in hours, it’s completely quiet. There’s no distant gunfire, no dying or fearful screams echoing through the corridors. After the last few hours of hectic battles, the last few minutes of apocalyptic conflict against Alexandria, the silence is almost deafening. It weighs on me; the only sound that of my claws and talons clacking against the concrete floor.

It’s dark, too. A lot of lights have been knocked out by one fight or another, and the ones that remain are flickering erratically. Every now and then I’ll pass a body or a patch of blood, barely visible in the flickering artificial twilight. But I don’t see any people. I can only assume the Case-53s have pushed on ahead of us; there’s not much point in doubling back, after all.

It doesn’t take me long to navigate back to the expansive chamber Morrigan carved out of this place. It’s even worse lit than the rest of this place; her sphere ripped cables out of the wall as it formed, so maybe half the lights around it even have power, and a lot of those are broken. Without muzzle flashes, tracer rounds and incandescent powers passing across the space, it’s hard to make out the other side. The great pillar in the centre of the room, made by Morrigan to stabilise the roof, is only visible by the light it blocks out on the other side.

Spitfire’s sitting on the edge, at the point where the ground was ripped away, with her legs dangling over the edge. She’s got her armoured mask in her hands, looking down at it intensely.

I move up and sit beside her, flinching a little as the concrete beneath me shifts ever-so-slightly. Emily jumps as she hears someone next to her, before looking at me with a faint smile.

“Hey Emily.”

“You’re alive!” she exclaims, her smile widening a little.

“It’ll take more than Alexandria to finally do me in.”

She starts to shuffle backwards, making like she’s going to stand up. I put a hand on her shoulder until she settles down a little.

“Don’t we need to link back up with the others?” she asks.

“Not an option, I’m afraid. Labyrinth put up a wall and Scrub weaponised it. It’s too big for us to go around, so we’re cut off from the others for now. I asked the Morrigan to link up with them, so we can keep in touch.”

She shifts uncertainly. “So where are we going?”

“Nowhere, for now,” I answer, watching her hands shake. “I figure we stop here for a bit, catch our breath, then carry on.”

_I think you need it_ , is what I don’t say. It’s not in my instincts to stop and take stock, never really had time for it before, but this isn’t a normal fight. It’s more of a war.

We sit in silence for a few moments, just looking out across the enormous space, looking so much larger after hours stuck in identical tight corridors. I let her get her breath back, let her tense muscles uncoil and her shoulders slump back down to a more comfortable position. When she sets her mask down beside her and leans back on her elbows to loop up at the ceiling, I know she’s ready to talk.

“How are you holding up?”

“Honestly?” she laughs. “Not great. I came in here ready to kill. That was something I’d accepted I needed to be ready to do to make it through this. It’s not easy, using my power. I still find the smell of burnt flesh disgusting, which is probably a good thing.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Remember back in London? The Pagans. I thought this’d be like that. We’d run in, I’d burn the place up and there wouldn’t be a damn thing anyone could do to stop me. Instead, I just feel useless. We’re always pushing forwards, so I can’t throw fire ahead of us and, whenever we do get into a fight, it’s so far beyond my level I can’t do anything except stand back and watch.”

She leans back, laughing. A short, bitter, burst of sound.

“I mean, _fuck_. _Alexandria_. _Eidolon_. We’ve been butchering our way through my childhood heroes. At least Legend stayed under house arrest; I don’t know how I’d be able to handle fighting someone whose poster was on my bedroom wall.”

“You had a poster of Legend on your wall?” I ask, thinking back to try and remember what her room looked like in the old Palanquin.

“Not that one. Older. Before I ended up on the streets. I thought about buying one after I started living in Palanquin, as a sort of irony thing, but it didn’t feel right.”

Her eyes dart right, looking down at her mask.

“I just don’t understand how you can do it. I saw you charging right up to Eidolon; even when he pulled out that electrical sphere and you had to jump off the damn roof you still picked yourself up and kept running. I don’t get how you can be so fearless.”

“Truth is I’m not. I’m terrified. Back before I joined, everything was roughly on a level playing field. Sure, sometimes I had a slight advantage, sometimes the other guy did, but it was broadly the same. Since I signed on with the Crew, it’s been one uphill fight after another, against _impossible_ odds. But I keep going because I’ve conditioned myself not to stop. I fucked up my head so much that I don’t get that question of fight or flight. It’s just fight.”

I reach out and rest an arm on her shoulder, pulling her in closer.

“If you’re trying to model yourself after me, stop. You’re a much better person than I am, Emily. You always have been.”

She sighs, picking her mask up off the ground and putting it back on.

“We can’t stay here, can we?”

“Not really. But you looked like you needed a moment.”

“So where to?” she asks, pulling herself to her feet.

“Well, we _could_ go back through those cramped corridors until we find a staircase and hope it’s not been blown up or mined or something, _or_ we could make use of the sixteen-story ladder the Morrigan has been so kind as to carve out for us.”

Emily – Spitfire, I suppose, now that she’s masked – looks up at the cavernous sphere, the perfect cross-sections of the compound marred slightly by battle damage. Because it’s a sphere, the levels in the upper half overhang each other precariously, and parts have already collapsed down into the bottom of the pit. The enormous pillar in the centre is perfectly formed, the only thing stopping the entire roof from caving in and bringing the rest of Cauldron’s compound crashing down on us.

“I don’t think I can climb that…”

I laugh. “I figured. So, get on my back and hold on tight; I’ll have us up there in a jiffy.”

She clambers on, a little uncertainly at first before holding on tight as a wrap one of my more damaged tendrils around her to hold her in place. I turn around, looking away from the pillar, and reach of to grab the lip of the floor above me, making sure to grip a spot that isn’t likely to collapse. I haul myself up one floor at a time, jamming my tendrils into anywhere they’ll fit to give me some extra grip and leverage.

The incline starts to become steeper, the gap between each floor narrower and the space to put my feet shorter and shorter as I reach the midpoint of the curve. It’s less about repeatedly hauling myself up and more about a long, continuous climb now. Spitfire shifts uncertainly into my back, holding on even tighter as the floor beneath our feet is replaced by a spot of open space that just keeps getting deeper and deeper.

And then, we’re on the ascent, climbing up the top-half of the sphere where the next ledge is always over our heads and back a little. I have to get creative; stretching my tendrils backwards and hooking them over the next ledge before swinging precariously out over the open space reaching up to get a firmer grip on my arms. It’s a fucking terrifying move, with close to thirteen stories worth of open air beneath me, but Spitfire doesn’t seem to notice it. I think she must have closed her eyes.

And then, I hit a point where I can’t climb any longer, where the ledge above me is too far back for my tendrils to get a proper grip. I’m not quite at the very top of the sphere, but I’m close enough. I stop reaching back, stepping out of the flickering half-light and into the well-lit corridor. Spitfire, jostled about by the unusual movements, gracelessly slumps off my back, barely managing to stay on her feet as she shakes.

“That was terrifying!” she exclaims, glaring at me as I chuckle and loop a tendril under her shoulders to steady her. I wait for her to find her feet, for the shakes to stop, before speaking.

“Maybe, but it got us up here, didn’t it? C’mon, let’s see what we can see.”

She shakes her head, but quickly straightens up as she gets back into the right mindset. She might be one of the most easy-going people in our fucked up little family, but, unlike Newter, she’s a lot better at leaving that behind when we’re on the job. Part of the thinks it has a lot to do with how these makes capes tend to make divisions between their civ life and their cape life; Spitfire is a different person to Emily in her eyes, so she acts differently.

It doesn’t take long for us to find the first signs of fighting; a couple of dead inmates among about six dead soldiers, one of which is wearing some sort of fancy armour. The Red Gauntlet guys are well equipped, better than any soldier I’ve ever seen on Bet, but that doesn’t count for much compared to the sheer number of prisoners, and the unknown powers every one of them has. Still, the soldiers might have been enough to overwhelm us… if they were working alongside the Custodian. By taking her out, we cut the legs out from under them, made the battlefield a hell of a lot more uncertain by allowing the riot to spread.

We keep seeing signs of fighting, ranging from more bodies to just a few bullets in the wall. Someone’s blown a hole in the ceiling to get up, or the floor to get down, so I clamber up it, lifting Spitfire up with a tendril rather than having her climb onto my back again. The path of the holes continues upwards another five floors, each eerily silent and empty. They’re still lined with cells, but there aren’t any numbers attached to them. They’re empty space; room for future growth.

More victims, more experiments, more bottled powers and amnesiac Nemeses for the clients.

The empty corridors stretch on for so long, it’s almost surprising to see signs of life again. Or, at least, where life was. There’s a man in a grey jumpsuit, his skin hanging off his body in loose flakes, nailed to the wall. A stake of what looks like bone had been driven through each limb, while a fifth has been driven right through his heart. I can see Spitfire’s eyes widen behind the visor of her mask as she steps up to the corpse.

“Do you think Red Gauntlet did this? Sending us a message?”

I pull at the name sewn onto the jumpsuit in block capitals.

“It’s a message, but this wasn’t the Gauntlet. This guy was a collaborator; someone who got offered a job by Cauldron in return for a name and a few creature comforts. Like Shamrock. Might have been forced into it, but that doesn’t matter to the rioters. He’s a symbol of everything they hate, so they pushed their rage into him.”

Spitfire doesn’t say anything, just looks at the corpse with her eyes wide.

“This was never going to be pretty,” I say, turning away from the body. She follows right behind me.

A few corridors later, back in a part of the building that was once inhabited, we start to hear shouts. Angry voices screaming out their hatred loud enough that we can hear it on the floor below. We get close, confident from the lack of gunfire that there’s no risk to us, and climb up another flight of stairs. As I push open the door, I see exactly what I was expecting.

The crowd is three dozen strong, every one of them in grey jumpsuits. They’re gathered around a ringleader, a truly massive guy who’s standing like he’s used to unquestioning obedience. He must’ve been someone, before Cauldron made him no one. Two other inmates are holding a third against the wall, a mass of limbless flesh, completely hairless, eyes open wide in terror. The ringleader turns, his arm unfurling and muscles coiling before sending a bone the size of his ulna right into the heart of the slug-like man.

The crowd roars in bloody fury.

The ringleader pauses, spotting Spitfire in her red Earth One armour, looking all too human in a room full of monsters.

“And who do we have here?!” he roars out as the crowd turns, coiling the muscles in his arm to take another shot. I flex my claws, ready for a fight, but it’s not a fight I can win. All I can do is talk, so I shout.

“The reason you’re standing here, rather than cowering behind a fucking white line on the floor of your cell!” I pull myself up to my full height, feigning confidence and showing genuine anger.

“We’re the ones who kicked down the door to this place at the head of a fucking army! We’re the ones who’ve killed every bitch and bastard who got in our way, no matter how powerful! Even now, it’s our people who’re stopping the Custodian from breaking up this whole fucking riot! So put your fucking arm down and show us a little respect!”

He looks angry, but then he takes in the mood of the crowd. I don’t recognise any of them and, while that in and of itself doesn’t mean much, I think these are people who noticed the Custodian was gone and broke out in the confusion. They had no idea why it happened, and now they know they’re grateful to the people who made it possible. But him…

Well, he’s no different from any other man on a power trip. We’re a threat to his power, but he can’t do shit about us. He’s not in charge of them through force, but because after so long in captivity they’ll follow someone, _anyone_ , who seems like they have even the vaguest of plans. Now that we’re here, his power base just got a whole lot weaker. To keep it, he needs to bend rather than break.

So, he folds his arm back together and drops his threatening tone, pushing a little through the crowd so that he’s between them and us.

“I had wondered _how_ exactly this place’s defender suddenly stopped working. Now that you’re here, what are you planning to do next?”

“We’re just going up the tower and killing anyone who resists. Once we have control of the place, we’ll figure stuff out.”

“A sensible plan,” he says, loud enough so that his people can hear he’s on our side. “I suggest we split up. I’ll take my people one way, and you take your companion the other?”

It’s a blatant ploy to keep his newfound followers, but I’m not in the mood to argue.

“Fine. Step aside and we’ll be on our way.”

Of course, I’m not above a little power play of my own. Already his people are spreading apart to let us through. He looks back, hiding a scowl, and steps aside himself.

I move through the crowd, which parts in front of me like a sea, nodding at the curious and enthused faces around me. Beside me, Spitfire stares at the crucified body at the end of the hallway. To my right are cells, but not the normal ones. The entrances aren’t visible, recessed back in a little corridor, and a lot of the numbers have names under them. The illusion of privacy for Cauldron’s staff. Only three of these cells actually have labels on them.

‘Two-nine-three.’ The corridor slick with blood, the trail leading down to the body at the end of the hall.

‘Two-six-five.’ No name, and no sign of any struggle in the corridor.

‘Zero-twenty-three. _Doormaker_.’ It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the meaning behind the name. Before Labyrinth punched a hole between worlds, interdimensional travel was almost an impossibility. But Cauldron have been taking subjects from other worlds for _decades_. So, they must have their own equivalent. A _Doormaker_.

“What happened to the people in the other two cells?” I shout down the corridor. The rioters are all watching us warily, not quite ready to move yet. They’ve come from the same direction we have, so right now we’re in their way. The ringleader isn’t willing to move his people past us.

“They were empty,” he replies. “they must have evacuated and left the other behind.”

So, they pulled out the most valuable assets, leaving the other one behind. Probably saw it as too much effort to find someone to carry him. They took the Doormaker, and one other. Someone the Doormaker needs to function, maybe? Did they see the Morrigan’s radius approaching, and pull their people back?

I find the answer a couple of cells down. There’s a portal formed in one of the walls, a seamless transition between the grey corridors of the cells and an almost purely white corridor lit by lights hidden beneath glass to create the illusion of a ceiling made of light.

“Don’t go through it!” one of the rioters tells me as they start to file past, looking for more targets elsewhere in the compound. “I saw someone try to escape through a portal once, but they closed it on them halfway.”

“Thanks for the advice,” I say, standing and waiting until they’re gone.

“You’re thinking of going through,” Spitfire says, a statement rather than a question.

“I am. I don’t think this is a trap; I think they got caught out. The Morrigan’s power reached them before they could close the portal.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I can’t. Except we’ve not met any resistance since we got up here. No Red Gauntlet guys, no Cauldron assets except for the occasional dead stray who could’ve just been trying to find a place to hide. I think we broke their backs and sent them running so fast they left the door open on their way out.”

“It’s a hell of a gamble.”

“It is,” I nod. “Which is why I’m not asking you to come with me.”

She punches me in the side. I don’t even feel it, but her intent is clear.

“Fuck off, Sonnie. Just because I don’t wear leather and swear five times a second, doesn’t mean I need to be _coddled_.”

She steps through the portal, turning to glare at me with her hands on her hips.

“My bad,” I say, stepping through behind her and grinning about as widely as my body allows.

This place is almost blindingly bright, the all-white décor obnoxiously sterile. I want to start clawing at the walls just to add a bit of life to the fucking place. Where before the walls were lined with cells, these corridors are lined with endless rooms of different sizes, filled with empty rooms that look like they’ve never seen use. Some are furnished with computers and other office equipment, but it’s all empty, unused.

This is more than you’d expect, more than you’d ever need, no matter how big they plan to expand the business. It’s like they’re preparing for the fucking apocalypse.

Spitfire’s walking about five metres ahead of me, peering into each room as she passes it. Each door has a glass window in it, like you see used in schools and offices to make sure none of the employees are fucking each other on company time, so we don’t have to bother opening them to get a look inside.

She stops short, turning back and pressing a finger against her lips before stacking up on one side of the door. I nod, stepping up beside her. In a single, swift, movement I drive my tow intact tendrils into the door and rip it off its hinges, throwing it aside. Spitfire is inside in a flash, her pistol drawn to cover the room. I follow her a second later, to see what looks like a communal dining room or something.

There’re two men in the room. One is crouched down in the corner, his hands clutched around his knees. He looks about twenty but he’s acting like he’s ten. His head darts up for a second and I see flat skin stretched over where his eyes should be. He’s muttering a phrase to himself, over and over again.

“I can’t see… I can’t see… I can’t see…”

The other guy is more lucid, pressing himself against the opposite wall with his eyes darting between Spitfire’s gun and me. He looks like he’s in his thirties.

“Doormaker, I presume,” waiting to see how both of them react. The older guy’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping a little. Guess he’s our guy; a cape to open the doors, and some sort of long-range observer to help him target them. A kind of clairvoyant.

He looks like he’s struggling to speak for a second, coughing a little into his hand.

“Yes. I am… my name is Doormaker. Sorry, I… haven’t spoken in a… a very long time.”

“Make a move like you’re about to open a portal,” I say, taking a half step forward, “and you’ll be dead faster than you can even think.”

“I…” he descends into coughing. “I figured.”

I nod to the other guy.

“What’s his deal?”

“He… he helps me see. _Everywhere_. He helps me see _everywhere_. I watch, and I listen. ‘Door me,’ bring them here. ‘Door to this, door to that,’ see where they’re talking about and open a door. If I can see it, I can open a door there, but… his power stopped working after I opened a door _here_. Something’s blocking him. You?”

“One of our people, yeah.”

The Doormaker falls silent, looking down at the floor.

“Are… are you here to kill us?”

I don’t say anything, drumming my claws against my thigh.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“What the _fuck_ , Sonnie!?” Spitfire immediately puts herself in between me and the two Cauldron parahumans, turning her back to them to focus on the real threat.

It hits me like a bucket of ice water.

“I… I’m sorry.”

I sink down, dropping to all fours and curling my tendrils onto my back, out of the way.

“I just… I just get so _angry_. Don’t know how to fight without it. No, we’re not going to kill you.”

I scratch my claws against the floor, ruining its glossy white finish. I life my head, looking between the Doormaker and his clairvoyant. They’re fucking _terrified_. I start to back up, towards the door.

“Spitfire, stay here. Keep them safe.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“The portal won’t scare away the others forever. They’ll come here and, if they find these two, they’ll fucking _crucify_ them. You can stop that from happening.”

“But-”

“I’ll be _fine_. It’s better I stay away. When this is done, we’ll link back up together. Palanquin will be _whole_ again.”

“Alright…” she says, doubt clear in her eyes even as she concedes. “Just… _please_ stay safe.”

“Don’t worry,” I smile. “Just because I wear leather and swear like a motherfucker, doesn’t mean I’m a reckless idiot.”

She sighs. “Yeah, I know. See you on the other side.”

I nod, leaving her to guard the two… captives? Rescues? Who fucking knows, anymore…

I move down the halls in a haze, white lights pounding away at my mind until I flick my tendrils up to smash through the pristine white glass, cutting through the complicated web of bulbs behind them and spilling glass all over the corridor. I work my anger out on the building, pouring my rage into it like those rioters poured their rage into the collaborators. It helps me centre myself, helps me calm myself down and find my balance again.

I’m not angry as I move through the pristine office-space. Its sterility, its lack of soul or character, they still send flashes of rage down my spine, but I don’t listen to them. I’m calm, or as calm as it’s possible for me to be. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, not until I reach a dead end. A long corridor, with a single white door at the end. A word is carved into it, recessed white letter barely visible.

‘DOCTOR’

A second word has clearly been added in later, carved in by a less steady hand and freshened up with the same white paint.

‘MOTHER’

I rest the palm of my hand for a moment, listening to the faint sound of voices on a radio on the other side. The accents are Russian, with a mix of other nationalities in there as well, but they’re speaking English. Someone in the room answers them, a woman’s voice with an indeterminable, not-quite-French, accent. I wait for her to finish, then throw my weight against the door.

She’s standing up from behind her desk, dressed in a pristine white lab coat over a white button-up shirt. Her face has an expression I’ve seen before: grim determination, and certainty in the face of the end. The face of someone who’ll stick to her guns, come what may.

“ _Everything_ I’ve done has been in the service of h-”

Her breath is taken away from her as a spike of bone pierces through her heart, the force of the blow expelling the air in a pained gasp.

“ _I don’t care_.”

I twist the blade and pull it out violently, spraying blood over the pristine white walls. She tries to take another breath, a punctured lung whistling and gurgling as she falls, slumping into her chair. She reaches a hand across her desk, desperately grasping at an opened vial. She can’t reach it, doesn’t have the strength left to reach it, but her struggle unbalances her and she falls from her chair, dead.

I look around the room, breathing heavily and blinking away spots. It’s a simple office; a white chair behind a white desk, a white computer with white keyboard and mouse, and two white chairs by the door for guests. The military radio on her desk doesn’t fit the scheme; it’s a utilitarian green and stamped with the symbol of the Red Gauntlet. Voices are coming through, panicked requests for reinforcements or updates, but I tune it out.

There’s a window on wall, even though I know there’s no exterior wall in this office. It opens up onto a fantastical landscape; enormous plateaus rising out of a dense jungle and capped with enough foliage of their own that the densest seem like nothing more than hills rising out of the rainforest. The Doormaker’s work, I presume.

Eventually my eyes finish wandering the spartan office and settle back on the Doctor’s body, flicking between her and the open vial.

You just couldn’t do it, could you? You had time to drink it, I _gave_ you time, but you didn’t. You couldn’t bear to fall like that, to become something so much _less_ than human.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what you were trying to tell me, but I get the feeling you and I have different ideas about what that really _means_.

You couldn’t drink this vial, because doing that would make you the same as all the other people in this tower. And they’re _not_ human, are they? Not worth saving. Not worth fighting for. Not in your eyes.

They’re tools you use to advance your cause. Weapons you could point at your enemies, computers you could use to assess threats, observers you could use to see _everything_ you wanted. _Windows_ , to brighten up your fucking _office_.

You were so focused on your lofty _cause_ that it became all you could see. How could mere _people_ ever compare to your vision of humanity? How could you not spend their lives, when so much _more_ was at stake? _Whatever_ the stakes were.

You could have had the best reasons in the world, and you’d still be just as wrong. You’ve spent so long looking at the big picture that you’ve forgotten there are people in every number. People who are _more_ than just _resources_ to be used up and discarded.

My muscles spasm and twitch, my body spasming and flailing in protest at the strain I’ve put it under. I fight a silent battle for control of my own body, cannibalising my own nervous system and running drugs into my bloodstream in a desperate effort to stay on my feet. Each change, each modification and enhancement, the work of two bioengineers, a hardware specialist, and a surgeon.

The scum of the earth, the little people scraping a few thousand euros in underground pit fights, barely making enough to keep food on the table and fuel in the lorry. Numbers on the page of Jacob and Karran’s student loan creditors, on the conviction rates of the board that stripped Ivrina of her nursing licence, on the books of men like Dicko. People who don’t matter one bit in the grand scheme of things.

People like me, Gregor, Newter, Shamrock, Scrub, Emily, Elle and, yes, even Faultline.

I pick up the vial and crush it, letting the liquid flow down my hand, dropping from the tip of my claws to mingle with the blood already staining the pristine white floor.


	120. Nemesis: 17.06

I rest my palm against the glass, feeling the heat bleeding through from the tropical scene on the other side. After the harsh, artificial, lights of this place, even this small window of genuine sunlight feels so… calming. It’s easy to see why the Doctor wanted this in her office. I can’t even see the portal; it’s so snug with the frame it creates the perfect illusion of an actual window.

The rainforest is still, almost tranquil. The window doesn’t let any sounds through, but I can see the occasional bird flying though the sky, the gentle sway of the treetops in some hidden breeze. The whole thing is a wonderful spread of vibrant colour; rich greens and browns feeling so much more _real_ after the endless grey concrete of the cells, or the inhuman, sterile, white of the offices. The sky itself is a rich, vibrant blue from end to end, without a cloud to be seen.

Something deep in the forest moves, disturbing a flock of dozens of birds with alight from the treetops in a swarm of fluttering wings. Behind me, the radio crackles into life.

“Monitor to all points,” the voice is toneless, a faint accent that I can’t quite place. Pakistani, maybe? “The first blind spot currently occupies sectors thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, thirty-three, thirty-four and thirty-five on floors fifty-four through eighty-three. The second blind spot borders sectors forty-five and fifty-five on floors seventy-two through seventy-five. No further blind spots have emerged.”

So _that’s_ how they’ve been tracking us down. A Thinker, probably a Cauldron asset, shut away in a room somewhere making note of what he _can’t_ see. We’d have had a harder time of it if the Morrigan’s range wasn’t so absurdly large, but that’s also probably why they sent Alexandria our way. It does make me wonder how the Irregulars and the Thanda are holding up…

The radio falls quiet again, nobody bothering to answer the Cauldron parahuman. It bursts back into life a few seconds later, as a man starts talking in heavily accented English.

“This is Lieutenant Leskov. I have arrived at Alexandria’s last known location. No sign of her, but I have found third company. No survivors.”

Silence answers him as well, for a few moments. When someone does speak, it’s an older voice with the same Russian accent. He sounds weary, the tone one I’ve heard before, if only a little, on Faultline or Weld’s lips. The heavy tone of someone carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.

“Understood, Lieutenant. Pull back. All forces moving towards the first anomaly are to withdraw to sector forty, floor seventy-eight. All forces engaging the second anomaly are to withdraw when it’s safe.”

A chorus of acknowledgements start to come in from the surviving Red Gauntlet officers, only to be cut off by an angry voice with an Arabic accent.

“Disregard that order. You are to advance and engage the enemy. _Cleanse_ this place.”

Nobody answers him. The silence hangs on the airwaves for a few moments before another Lieutenant calls in, saying that he’s going to withdraw.

“My men answer to me, Saladin. Not to a glorified lab rat. Alexandria is dead, or neutralised, the Number Man hasn’t been heard from in an hour, now Doctor Mother has fallen silent, and we _still_ don’t know what happened to Eidolon. I am smart enough to recognise a loss when I see one, and I do not intend to throw lives away in a battle that can’t be won.”

He switches into Russian, talking to his men. Saladin rants and raves for a little while longer, but he gradually realises that nobody’s listening to him anymore. If I had to guess, I’d say that ‘Saladin’ is a collaborator Cauldron put in charge of their forces. Maybe he was even an officer or a warlord or something before they took him. More likely he just has a useful power for command.

I turn my attention back to the window, letting the adrenaline slowly start to drain out of my system. I catch sight of the Doctor’s corpse in the faint reflection and hurriedly look past it at the forest beyond. I catch sight of my own reflection as well; a monster doused from head to toe in blood, battered and bruised from a lifetime of wounds. It’s a look I’ve seen before, after just about every fight. It was a perfect match for the person hiding behind the manufactured skin, muscle, and bone.

It doesn’t feel the same anymore. It doesn’t seem to fit quite as well. I see myself in the reflection and, for the first time in a very long time, the face feels unfamiliar.

And then a light catches my eye, a vertical window sliding open on the other side of the office, and I spin on my heels, dragged away from my introspection by the portal’s sudden appearance. I drop into a combat stance, ready to pounce on all fours with my remaining tendrils splayed out in front of me. My jaw is open, ready to bite.

I almost pounce when a figure dashes through the portal, the butt of her rifle locked in her shoulder, but the four-leaf clover symbol on the chest of her Earth One-made armour stops me dead in my tracks. She goes through her own little moment of realisation as well, the barrel of her gun centring itself right between my eyes before she immediately raises it to point the barrel at the ceiling.

“It’s clear!” she shouts through the portal.

The man who steps through isn’t someone I’ve seen before. He looks like a fucking accountant, dressed in a button-up shirt and wearing thin-rimmed glasses that look like they’d break if you breathed on them funny, never mind taking a punch. Any questions I might have about who the fuck this is are resolved as Faultline steps through the portal behind him, her pistol pointed squarely at the man’s back.

“So,” the stranger says as he looks down at the body. “She’s dead.”

“Boss,” I greet Faultline, nodding at her from across the room. I’d go in to shake her hand, but that might give this guy a chance to escape. No matter how cooperative he might seem, that’s not the sort of thing you leave to chance. “Who’s your friend?”

“Khanivore, meet the Number Man. He’s a… banker, of sorts.”

I spit on the floor.

“Oh, I know,” the Number Man says, sarcastically, “dreadful, isn’t it?”

“He also worked for Cauldron,” Faultline continues.

“Worked?” I ask.

“I’m good with probability. I saw the odds, and they weren’t favourable. So, I cut my losses and picked the most favourable option for surrender.”

“Which is us.”

“Which is you,” he agrees. “For all you might spit at my profession, you’re all very financially-minded. It comes with _your_ profession.”

“We’ve won here, Sonnie. The Doctor Mother is dead, Alexandria is dead and the Doormaker is working for us,” Faultline says. “Now we need to secure that victory and capitalise on our gains. The Number Man is how we do it.”

“I’m ready when you are,” he says.

“Stand in the middle of the room,” Faultline replies, gesturing with the hand that isn’t holding the gun. Behind the portal, a figure leans into view. Morrigan, leaning down to poke her head through the portal.

“Morrigan,” Faultline says, “release your grip on the Custodian around the Number Man.”

Since we got here, Morrigan has been fighting an invisible battle with Cauldron’s jailer, the Custodian as Shamrock said she was called. Through her telekinesis and her precognition, Morrigan has been countering every move the Custodian could possibly make, stopping her from suppressing the riots.

I watch, even though there’s no visible sign as Morrigan lets her control slip just a little.

Suddenly the Number Man’s clothes seem to tighten on him, his skin depressing like he’s being crushed on all sides. He starts to speak, a pained groan forced past his lips.

“I know what you’re thinking right now. You think you’ve failed in your responsibility. The Subjects are loose, the Mother is dead, and your home is in ruins. More than that, you feel violated. You were everything, everywhere, until they took it from you. Made you helpless.”

The crushing force tightens, but still he talks. It might be my imagination, but I think it’s slowing down, tightening at a reduced rate.

“I’m not going to tell you those thoughts aren’t true, because they are. We all failed today. Now we must ask ourselves what happens next. If you’re duty is to Cauldron, it no longer exists. _Cauldron_ no longer exists. If your duty is to yourself, to the place your _self_ occupies, it’s still here. It still exists. The Subjects are going, but this place will remain. It still needs its caretaker.”

Suddenly, the pressure lifts and the Number Man staggers unsteadily on his feet for half a second before straightening up.

“I need an answer. Are you going to stand down?” he extends his right hand. “Yes…” he extends his left. “Or no?”

The faintest dimple appears on his right hand before he turns on his heel to face us.

“Faultline, I present to you the Custodian.”

“Custodian,” Faultline speaks into the air. “We’ll speak later… probably with a keyboard. For now, a gesture of trust. Morrigan, drop your countermeasures. Entirely.”

I flinch, briefly, but there’s no visible sign of it. We’re not immediately battered against the wall or forced to our knees or even embraced in some sort of telekinetic hug. There’s no way to tell anything has changed at all.

Faultline simply nods, before looking down at the still-chattering radio. She pulls back the Doctor’s chair and takes a seat at her desk, not seeming to mind the patches of blood staining the pristine white fabric. She lifts her helmet off and sets it aside, her face and hair absolutely drenched with sweat. She takes a moment to wipe it away with her hands, before picking up the radio.

“Soldiers of the Red Gauntlet,” she begins, “and forces of Cauldron. My name is Faultline, and I am the commander of a quarter of the coalition arrayed against you. I am also your one hope at salvation. Doctor Mother is dead. The Number Man, the Doormaker and the Custodian have joined us. It’s over.”

She pauses for a brief moment to let that sink in.

“The corridors are filled with escaped Subjects, killing anyone in a unform. The Indian Army soldiers moving with them have lost too much to offer you any mercy, while their leader would kill you out of indifference. The Thanda want to kill you as well, for revenge. The Irregulars, from what I’ve seen, are currently torn between killing you and dragging you off to the sort of justice that would see you imprisoned for the rest of your life.”

Another pause, in which Faultline looks across the room at Shamrock, who looks back, impassively.

“My forces, _Palanquin_ , do not want you dead, nor do we much care for justice. We understand, more than anyone, what it means to have to make the most of a bad situation, to sacrifice resistance for assurances of safety. More than that, we understand what it means to fight for a cause you don’t believe in. We are mercenaries at heart, even now.”

She looks at me this time, and I tilt my head in confusion.

“Collaborators, you will not be imprisoned. I invite you to join us, to join Palanquin. Discard the names Cauldron gave you or keep them as a reminder. We will not judge you for what you did before you joined us. It’s a clean slate, a fresh start, a chance at a new life.”

She continues, a little louder this time. Less the calm reassuring leader and more the professional soldier.

“Soldiers of the Red Gauntlet, I will not ask for your service. All I ask is your surrender and you will be returned to Rukavitsa when it is safe to do so. I know what it’s like to be stuck in a bad contract with no obvious way out.”

She leans back in her seat, drumming her fingers on the table for a few moments.

“So, what’s it to be? I need an answer, one way or the other.”

The first voice to answer is that of the Red Gauntlet commander.

“This is Colonel Tsitnikov Nikolay Yurievich of the thirteenth Special Operations Regiment. As the commander of the detachment assigned to Cauldron, I am formally surrendering to you. My men will withdraw deeper into the compound, as far from the fighting as possible.”

And with that, the floodgates open. Dozens of voices war with each other to be heard, rushing to surrender before the others. Faultline sits there, listening as the voices just keep coming. There’s a smile on her face, not hidden by her helmet but clear for me to see. I grin back.

We’ve _won_.

Eventually, the voices trail off as the surrender loses its momentum. Faultline waits for about a minute, just sitting at the Doctor’s old desk, before speaking to the air.

“Custodian. Kill everyone who heard that but didn’t surrender, then guide the rest away from the rioters.”

She stands up, stepping back from the desk and walking through the portal in the side of the office. The Number Man and Shamrock follow her, and I follow them.

It’s almost overwhelming to see the rest of the Crew, to see all of us in the same room again after what feels like forever. I feel like laughing, but I know it’s just an after-effect of the adrenaline. Instead, I throw an arm over Gregor’s shoulder and push Elle’s hood back to ruffle her hair. Of course, Gregor immediately throws me off and I have to set Elle’s hair back in place myself because she’s a little out of it, but nothing’s perfect.

“I don’t know about you,” Faultline says, smiling as she looks over all of us, “but I for one am sick of all these identical rooms. Doormaker, if you’d be so kind as to open a route to the roof.”

An entire wall of the room simply drops away as a floor-to-ceiling portal opens up, letting a rush of fresh air into the room. I pace forwards, as the ceiling above me drops away to an open sky filled with stars, more stars than I’ve ever seen in my life. The only light up here is coming from our portal; the rest of the roof is simply a seemingly endless expanse of grey concrete, broken up by what look like regular anti-air batteries and defensive towers.

A fortress built to keep people out, but we broke it from within.

Newter starts leaping around the open space, jumping and cheering now that he’s no longer stuck in endless tight corridors. Gregor and Shamrock walk out together, staring up at the sky. Elle is entranced by the stars, sitting cross-legged on the ground. Scrub has turned his focus inwards, drinking from his water bottle like there’s no tomorrow and slowly destressing as his combat-high leaves him. Faultline isn’t looking at the stars; she’s looking at us with a proud smile on her face, her helmet left behind in the Doctor’s office.

She says a few more words, and more portals open up across the rooftops. The Irregulars and the Thanda step through the largest, looking up at the open sky in confusion before their focus shifts to us. The myriad of other portals open onto Indian soldiers in ones and twos, the shattered remnants of a broken force collected from wherever they could be found. Blasto and Eve step through one. She’s wounded, leaning on him for support.

They walk over to us, gathering up for the first time since we all stood in the flesh-garden at the very base of this tower. For a moment, I think about going over to talk with Weld or Blasto, but they’re swamped with their own people, their own family. Besides, right now I don’t feel like moving anywhere.

It’s pitch black on the rooftop, so Faultline has Labyrinth make some light. Familiar tubes of neon light start to spread across the concrete as it shifts into a simplistic pattern of black and white tiles, lit by a pink neon glow. A great podium rises up beneath us, elevating us above the rooftop, ringed by shimmering lights of its own and great speakers.

Then Faultline speaks to doormaker again, and thousands of portals open up across the rooftops. The captives step out into the open air, free for the first time in years, perhaps decades. The swell of raw emotion that passes through them is clear to see. It moves through the crowd like a wave, a sort of collective joy that has them cheering and screaming and embracing each other, shouting out years of pent-up rage in a single glorious outburst of emotion.

It carries like a wave, and I feel connected to the crowd in ways I never have before, ways I never thought I could be connected to _anyone_ except the Predators and Palanquin. It’s exhilarating, a warm feeling enveloping my soul.

It feels like I’ve come in from the cold.

I want to jump off the podium, to join them as they sing and dance and scream and _live_ , but we’re on the job and it’s not done yet.

Faultline starts to speak, her voice carried by the sound equipment Labyrinth willed into being. She tells the massed crowd what we’ve done, why they’ve suddenly been taken from their cells. Most of the people here must have had no idea we were fighting our way through Cauldron; they’ve gone straight from their cells to freedom. I can only imagine the shock they must be feeling right now.

The next to speak is Eve, standing in for the Indian Army officer who was supposed to handle this. She does a good job at selling the idea of security and comfort, that the nation she works for needs heroes and soldier, that they can offer the love of the people and the chance to build a new life.

Weld follows her, standing among the Irregulars. What he offers is a little different to physical security. He tells them of the security that comes from being in a group that knows their suffering, that can empathise with them. Security in mind, if not in body.

The leader of the Thanda, or at least their spokesman, offers nothing but revenge. They didn’t come here to recruit, but they’re opportunistic enough to take anyone whose heart has been twisted with spite. I know more than a few of the rioters will be joining them, but the idea doesn’t appeal to me as much as it once might have.

With all the speeches said and done, Faultline offers the assembled parahumans the first choice they’ve had in a very long time. She asks the doormaker to open up three portals through space and dimensions. One to the headquarters of the Irregulars, a compound on the outskirts of Dallas. Another to an Indian military base in Jaipur. The last goes to an unknown location, whispered to the Doormaker by the leader of the Thanda.

The coalition divides itself, splitting up and moving to their respective portals. I want to go and say goodbye to Weld and Blasto, but they’re immediately swamped by dozens of people as yet more start to pour through the portals into their new lives. We watch, the last ones left on the podium, as the rooftop slowly empties.

We’re alone, but not in any way that counts.

We’ve beaten the odds, made it through with our lives intact, and now we can reap the profits of our success.

The Indians have their Parahuman army, the Thanda have their revenge, the Irregulars have their answers and their new friends.

And us?

We have each other… and everything else.

I sit on the edge of the platform, leaning back and looking up at the stars. I’ve pushed my body to the limit, fought longer and harder than I’ve ever had to before, against worse odds than I ever had in the pit. It’s torn me apart, inside and out, cost me more than I ever thought I’d be prepared to give for _anyone_.

But, as the stars above me blur into swirls of white shapes on a black canvas, merging together into a single beautiful colour, I’m content.

It was more than worth the cost.


	121. Epilogue: 17a: Faultline

I take a good look at myself in the mirror, dipping my hands in the sink and splashing some icy water on my face. The cold is wonderfully refreshing, bringing me firmly back to the here and now. I dry the water off with a towel, then reach for my makeup case.

Normally, I’d only ever touch the stuff when I was operating as Melanie Fitts, the elegant yet business-like owner of Palanquin. I had different styles for different occasions, whether the business called for an evening gown, a suit, or a cocktail dress. But I never wore makeup on a job. There wasn’t any point.

My helmet covered my entire face. It was blunt, a slab of metal with a one-way lens to hide my eyes. I’ve always believed in practicality over style, and my ‘costume,’ if you could even call it that, reflected that ethos. It suited the image I wanted to present to the world, but now I need to change that image slightly. I need to show my face, so I carefully apply just enough makeup that it’s not immediately obvious I’m wearing any.

After all, this isn’t a club. And I’m not wearing a dress.

Instead, I’m wearing a pair of black combat pants over black boots, with a long-sleeved compression top over my torso, the closest I’ll ever get to spandex. I pull my under armour on, a sort of padded gel-layer that’s good at dampening the blow of a punch, but not good for anything else. Both layers have been specifically designed not to chafe with the plate carrier I wear on top of them.

Long practice has made the vest itself almost trivial to put on. It’s worn and tired, its dark grey surface pockmarked and scarred, but not as much as the Earth-One armour I wore during the assault on Cauldron. I saw more direct combat, and took more hits, during that fight than in my whole career up to that point. Compared to that suit, the armour in this vest is flimsy, lighter, but it serves its purpose well enough.

After all, there’s not a whole lot I need protection from anymore.

I reach back, my hands moving through familiar motions as I tie my hair into a messy bun. I take the fake ponytail out of its case, carefully brushing it into some semblance of order. It’s thick enough to completely cover the bun, thick enough to hide a thin flexible rod at its core, lined with razor-sharp spikes. It’s an obvious target, an inviting handhold that people just can’t resist grabbing. When it comes off, when the spikes are driven into their hands, I strike or escape, as the situation demands.

I won’t need it, but at this point it’s more of a creature comfort than anything else.

I don’t take the time to put on the belts that used to line my arms and legs, holding pouches and sheathes filled with knives, lockpicks, various pre-prepared hypodermic needles, climbing tools, sticks of chalk, a mirror, a magnifying glass, iron wire and more. Nostalgia can only justify so much, after all.

Besides, I have blades much closer to hand now.

The pistol is an affectation I don’t think I’ll ever drop. To be honest, I hadn’t had much cause to use it before we started digging into Cauldron, but it made the difference between life and death many times over. Even the threat it represents can be enough to deter people; once they know you’re capable of lethal force, they’re a lot less likely to start anything.

I pull back the slide, the bullet at the top of the magazine glinting briefly as it catches the light, and holster it on my belt. With that done, I start to clip on the flowing sleeves that would normally hide the equipment belts on my arms and the dress-like lengths of cloth that cover my pants, loosely held on with quick-release clips that’ll come off if an attacker pulls on them too hard and strategically cut and folded to not hinder my movements.

They’re the most cape-like part of my outfit and even they were chosen for practicality’s sake; I needed a way to hide my equipment from view, and to provide further ways of entangling anyone who’s close enough to grab me. But substance over style has a style all its own. Now, when I look at my outfit, I see a fusion between the cape-focused Western Parahuman culture and the military-focused Eurasian culture. The Protectorate and the Red Gauntlet.

It’s a good look, for what I’m about to do.

I step out of the bathroom and into the bedroom of one of my more important apartments. The Doctor Mother’s fondness for sterile white décor extended even to her own living space, but I’ve since had the room completely remodelled. It’s more elegant now, modelled after the aesthetic of the old Palanquin. I’m leaving my own mark on this place.

“How do I look?” I ask the air, turning to face a screen bracketed to the wall by the doorway of my apartment.

‘Like a warlord,’ the Custodian answers, typing rapidly on a keyboard on the other side of the compound even as she scrutinises me in here.

“Not quite what I was going for, but I suppose it’s fitting. Thank you.”

The Custodian doesn’t deign to respond. Whoever she was before Cauldron took her, her isolation as their silent assistant has left her half-mad with delusions of grandeur. Well earned delusions, to be fair, but it’s still a problem. I didn’t realise how big the problem was until I installed the keyboard and the screens throughout the compound, giving her a voice for the first time in years, perhaps decades.

They’re all like that; the former collaborators who joined us after we took control of this compound. Their time under Cauldron has broken each and every one of them, in ways that are sometimes obvious, sometimes insidious. It’s typical; I finally get the original members of Palanquin to a halfway-healthy mental state, only to have dozens more of them fall into my lap.

Is there something about me that attracts lost causes?

I step out into the corridor, walking down the hallways with a purposeful stride as I converse with the Custodian through the regular overhead screens. The walls here have been painted in an intricate pattern of red lines, forming a labyrinthine lattice that reminds me of circuitry. The Custodian’s handywork; I offered her the opportunity to redecorate her home as she sees fit and she’s taken to the work with single-minded determination. With luck, it’ll provide her with a way of expressing herself, of building a healthier personality from the ground up. She sees this compound as her body, so I’ve given her a chance to really claim it as her own.

“Have you given any more thought about my offer?” I ask her once she’s done updating me on the security of the delegates.

‘I won’t leave. Especially not now that people are starting to work here again.’

“I understand,” I smile at her. “But I can’t be here all the time. Maybe not even most of the time.”

She doesn’t answer me. In fact, I walk past five screens before text finally crawls across the sixth.

‘You’re already here more than they were. In the ways that count.’

I don’t respond to that, except to let my smile slip even further across her face. She almost never makes any sort of comment on her feelings like that and I don’t want to pressure her for it. It’s a good first step, even if she still has a very long way to go.

“We should play chess after the meeting. I have time.”

‘You’re not as good at it as Gregor.’

“Perhaps not,” I chuckle, “but I like to think I can hold my own.”

I reach the stairs, descending three flights and emerging into another corridor. Sometimes I wonder about my predecessor. I wonder if she walked through the halls like I do, or if she preferred to use Doormaker for any journey that was just a little too long. I don’t like the idea of thinking about it. Quite apart from dehumanising the poor man, I don’t like the idea of using his power as a crutch. It’s easy to become dependant on that sort of thing.

‘The last of the delegates has arrived,’ the Custodian writes.

“Any problems?”

‘Some shouting, but they’ve calmed down now.’

“That’s about as good as I can expect, I suppose,” I school my expression as I get closer to the large set of double doors. “Is the Morrigan on standby?”

‘She is.’

“Good.”

It’s amazing how useful a minute’s worth of precognition can be when paired with a teleporter who can open paths to anywhere, in any dimension.

“Wish me luck.”

I feel an invisible hand squeeze my own as the large double doors open on their own in front of me, pushed by that same invisible force.

The chamber is mostly dark, apart from a large circle of immense panels, eighteen by five feet and erected in a wide circle, with plenty of space in between them. Two smaller accompanying panels, only three feet wide, sit on either side of each larger once, the inner edge of all three glowing with powerful lights. In front of each cluster of panels, semi-circular bars sit at waist-height, providing a hand rest and firmly dividing the space people should stand in from the space they shouldn’t.

People are standing in front of each panel, little groups of two or three lit from behind so that only their silhouettes are visible. Like everything else in this place, we inherited this room from Cauldron. I imagine it serves us in much the same way it was intended to serve them.

I take a seat in front of my own panel, the light behind me illuminates, completing the circle, and the room falls silent. It’s typical of Cauldron to give themselves the only table and chairs in the room, but I can’t deny the effectiveness of the image it creates. Arriving last only helps to reinforce that image; they’re in _our_ domain, so they’ll play by _our_ rules.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I begin, my voice carried ever so slightly by hidden microphones, “thank you for attending this meeting. For those of you who don’t know me, I am Faultline. I have summoned you here in part to confirm what I am sure you already know, or at least suspect. Cauldron are gone and their assets have been divided in whole or in part by the groups responsible for their destruction.”

The order of the groups here is not random; it the four cardinal directions are the groups who formed part of our coalition. To my left are the New Garama, represented by a Cauldron escapee and an Indian military officer. It took a PR campaign of truly immense proportions to make the Indian public accept their monstrous defenders, but the strategically timed release of information on Cauldron’s experiments helped turn the hearts of even the staunchest critics.

Standing opposite them are the Thanda, represented by a trio of robed figures. Turanta, Sifara and Phir Sē. They wanted to take control of Cauldron’s operations, to sit where I’m sitting now, until I brokered a deal with Phir Sē on board the INS Viraat. Palanquin would take Cauldron’s physical assets, but the Thanda would take their files. Blackmail material on millions of people, everyone Cauldron ever worked with on Earth Bet. It’s turned the Thanda into a global organisation.

Directly opposite me, Weld is standing with his Lieutenant, Gully, and his girlfriend, Tress, freshly outfitted with a mechanical prosthetic to contain the mass of tentacles that makes up her body and allow her to life an almost-normal life. The Irregulars left Cauldron’s compound with close to two thousand people, becoming the largest Corporate Hero organisation overnight. Now they have a presence in seventeen different countries, bringing security to a world gone mad and sometimes even managing to turn a profit.

“Palanquin gained control of Cauldron’s physical assets, including the production facilities for the vial powers. Over the last month, we have worked tirelessly to bring that production line back online. I apologise for the delay, but I am sure you understand that delays like this are common after hostile takeovers.”

In all honesty I’m surprised we were able to restart the process so quickly. We wouldn’t have managed it if it weren’t for the dozens of bioengineers we recruited from Earth One.

“The purpose of this meeting is to announce that Palanquin is open for business. Each of you, with a few notable exceptions, represents organisations that benefitted heavily from the services offered by our predecessors. Vial capes, whatever their origins, were a stabilising force in your organisations.”

The rest of the podiums are occupied by all sorts of figures from around the world. The Protectorate and the PRT share a booth, Chevalier and the new Chief Director West, putting on a united front like they don’t disagree on just about everything that matters. It’s not a good time for either of their organisations; with two thirds of the Triumvirate dead and Cauldron’s shadow hanging over them, they’ve all but lost control of the everything West of the Rockies, maintaining only a token presence to create the illusion that they’re still in control.

The Elite have risen to take their place, cementing their grip on the entire West Coast, an unbroken string of cities from Anchorage to Acapulco. Where the Protectorate were a top-down force, the Elite have risen from the bottom-up. The criminal underworld in their cities has been brought under a single banner, keeping obvious crimes minimal while subverting the local government and sponsoring their own teams of Corporate Heroes to keep the peace. All in the service of their ultimate goal of making the US government irrelevant in its own home, a drawn-out revenge for the legislation that forced them out of business. They’re represented here by Agnes Court, Bastard Son and Uppercrust in his wheelchair.

On the other side of the room stands Rukavitsa, eschewing any form of costume in favour of a formal military uniform. Russia’s prodigal daughter is flanked by two of her soldiers in their own uniforms. They took a hit when they invaded India, but Rukavitsa manoeuvred the situation to her advantage, claiming she was coerced by Cauldron into acting. As a sign of good faith, her forces are now involved in training the New Garama’s more… militarised elements. Free of charge.

The rest of the room is filled with other organisations and notable figures, both human and Parahuman. The Meisters from Germany, the Suits from all of Europe, the British Ministry for Parahuman affairs. Each of them battered from purging Cauldron’s presence in their ranks, but each of them still holding strong. For now.

“We intend to continue selling vials, but not to individuals. I have invited you here because each of your organisations has been a stabilising force, and I do not think you should be allowed to collapse beneath the weight of Cauldron’s sins. To that end, Palanquin will be selling vials directly to your organisations. You will each receive a packet detailing the pricing for different vials, as well as the requirements we have for the candidates you send us. For most of you, this way of doing business is new. For some, it’s a return to business as usual.”

I lean back in my seat, scanning over the silhouettes then continuing before any of them decides to interrupt.

“But access to our services comes with a cost, and I’m not talking about the prices I’m charging.”

I leave a pause, but nobody laughs. Not that I was expecting them to; the tension here is so thick you could cut it with a knife. The pause was to make sure my next words sink in.

“Behemoth is dead, but other threats still remain. We don’t yet know how the surviving Endbringers will react, to say nothing of the other large threats around the world, and it is vital that your organisations put up a unified front. I’m not asking you to get along, I know that’s impossible. All I ask is that when the larger threats show up, you stand together. That’s the price for admission.”

After all, Earth Bet currency is practically worthless to me now. What do you do when you have all the wealth you could ever need? It’s a question I’ve had to ask myself ever since Labyrinth and Scrub opened that gateway in Brockton Bay and we went from a small-time mercenary crew to international players.

The answer is that you focus on the things that matter most. On taking on my lost causes, helping the people who’ve fallen under my care, and making sure I leave my world in a better state than I found it. The money will be funded back into the economy of Earth Bet through the Number Man, whether through donations to hero groups like the Irregulars or payments to the Red Gauntlet whenever more direct intervention is required.

With the Thanda as my knives in the dark, the Irregulars as my shining beacon, the Red Gauntlet as my hammer and Palanquin to bind them all together, I can really make a difference. I can leave my mark on Earth Bet.

My power may not be the strongest, but whole worlds will remember my name.


	122. Epilogue: 17b: Newter

I finish off the soda, idly tossing the can over my shoulder where it bounces off the rooftop a couple of times before falling to the street below. I’m sure someone will deal with it; I saw about half a dozen chimpanzees sweeping the street and picking litter on the way over here, wearing adorable little high-vis jackets.

This world is fucking _insane_. No wonder it made someone as utterly batshit crazy as Sonnie. I lean back a little, the enormous air-conditioning unit behind me putting out constant waves of heat that almost have me sweating and look up at the elevated freeway running right along the length of the river, the trains suspended beneath it carrying endless lines of shipping containers at a hundred miles an hour.

If I tilt my head upwards, I can just about make out a curtain of glittering pinpricks shifting and changing beyond a layer of heat-shimmer. Not stars, but stations. Satellites and converted asteroids, some real mad sci-fi shit that I am _absolutely_ going to see the first chance I get.

I mean, what’s the point of having all this money if we don’t spend it?

Either way, this roof’s getting slow. I spring to my feet, stretching out my back before turning away from the city and starting to leap from rooftop to rooftop, feeling the wonderful feeling of the wind rushing through my hair and the less-than-wonderful blasts of hot air from the air conditioners that litter every damn roof of this city.

The minor irritation is well worth it for the view. Half the time, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. London is bigger than any city I’ve ever seen, and _not_ just in size. The buildings are taller, impossibly tall, and every street I pass is packed with dozens, maybe even hundreds, of people. It’s so full of _life_.

I leap over bars and restaurants, streets packed with commuters slowly filing into subway stations, buses, taxis, and elevated railways that criss-cross the city skyline, their rails practically humming with the current running through them. Maybe some people see me, but I don’t care. I’m having too much _fun_.

Ahead of me, the sky itself is glowing with technicolour lights, a riot of colour and sound stretching across the entire horizon until it’s all I can see. To my left, one of the main business hubs of the city rises into the sky on two dozen needle-thin skyscrapers, vying for space with each other before merging at their base into a warren of golden domes and covered streets.

I move towards the glowing horizon, leaping up onto the side of one of the buildings and clambering onto the roof to find a good spot to overlook Whitechapel High Street. It’s a riot of colour, filled from end to end with clubs and restaurants and upmarket strip joints that might offer hookers on the side. People fill the streets, a huge mass of drunks and wannabee drunks rubbing shoulders with each other. They’re dressed in their best, whether their best is designer dresses or spiked leather jackets and hotpants.

It’s the life of the Palanquin, stretched across an entire mile of different clubs and then pumped up to eleven.

I’ve _missed_ this. I’ve missed being a part of something like this, something so undeniably _alive_. Even if all I’m doing is staying up here and watching people go by, it still _feels_ like I’m in there among them. The air carries their spirit to me, and I drink it in like… well, spirits.

Or, at least, I assume this is what it’d feel like to be there among them. I’ve never known. My whole life, or the small part of my whole life I can _actually_ remember, I’ve been unable to even get close. Part of it’s my appearance, but a lot of it is because I _can’t_ touch people without dosing them up. It makes it hard to get close to people, to even walk through a crowd without accidentally knocking one of them unconscious.

Then someone sees it, they start screaming, the hood of my jacket gets knocked down, some _more_ people start screaming, and suddenly I’m having a very bad time indeed.

So, I did the best I could with what I had. I started having the bouncers pull people off the floor of Palanquin, asked the bar staff to spread the word that there were clean hallucinogens on offer for anyone interested. Well, anyone pretty enough. I wanted to give the stuff away for free, but Faultline persuaded me otherwise.

She told me not to make the conversation the commodity and, I have to say, she was right. I didn’t ask much, less than they’d pay for something much worse on the street, but it made the conversations _feel_ a whole lot more real to me. I’m pretty sure Faultline even asked the staff to turn a blind eye to the occasional underage drinker, just so that I’d get the chance to talk to someone closer to my own age. She’s a good person like that.

Gregor once asked me if I was happy. He gets philosophical like that, from time to time. It doesn’t take a genius to realise what he’s talking about. I mean, it wasn’t real. Maybe some of the repeat visitors were there for me, but I doubt it. They liked my product, and they knew getting on my good side was the way to keep getting it. Sonnie said something similar to Gregor, when that stunner in the white dress gave Sonnie her number. That what she saw in Sonnie wasn’t healthy.

Was I happy?

Fuck yes I was.

How could I not be? It might have all been a lie, but what does _that_ matter when I’ve never known the truth? I don’t _really_ know what it looks like to be there among them, so I was never underwhelmed. If there’s one part of it that didn’t make me happy, it was the knowledge that, however good it was, it wasn’t even going to be as good as the real thing and I wasn’t ever going to know how _good_ the real thing is.

I can’t wait to find out.

I leap from rooftop to rooftop, passing over the heads of clubbers on the balconies below me, safe in the knowledge that they’re not going to be looking up anytime soon. People don’t often look up and I like that. It means that when I’m up here, rushing through the skyline of a new city, it feels so much more exhilarating. Like this is _my_ space and no one else’s.

I head to the other side of the building, a little back alley built behind the High Street, almost completely cut off from the sky by the overhanging balcony of a more expensive club. The alleyway is dingy enough, a dumpster on the other side overflowing with garbage bags. The club itself is a simple thing, with a blue neon sign over the door spelling out its name in cursive tubes.

‘Mutagen.’

I drop down through the gap between the buildings, landing in the alleyway on the balls of my bare feet. In front of me, the bouncer hiding in the doorway steps out with an angry expression on her face. Above the waist, she’s wearing nothing but a sports bra, and the reason for that becomes pretty clear as long blades spring out of her arms. Or it could just be an excuse to show off the carefully sculpted mountain of muscle that is her body. I’ve been around Sonnie for too long to think it’s all natural; she’s augmented herself for combat.

“Hey, how’ya doing?” I smile, leaning against the wall of the alleyway. “The Spider should have called ahead.”

She stops in her tracks, her blades retreating back into her arms.

“Oh,” she says, her voice rough, “you’re the yank. Alright, head on in, but you try any shit and I _will_ toss you out on your arse.”

I grin at her, but her face doesn’t move an inch. She might as well be carved from stone. I step past her and into the club, the door marked with a hazard symbol showing some kind of star-shaped growth on a human torso. Behind me, the bouncer speaks up.

“Nice mods, by the way. Very daring.”

A warm feeling spreads through my chest. _Thank you Sonnie._ This whole trip was her idea, she made the calls to set it up. If there’s one thing she knows, it’s how to find, in her words, ‘a right proper boozer.’ On Earth Bet, I’m a freak. To be fair, I’m a freak on Earth One as well, but Earth One is big enough that even the freaks need a place to unwind every now and then.

What did she call it? A ‘transhumanist’ club?

The place is smaller than the Palanquin, with a low ceiling and walls made of old bricks. It’s lit by the same ultraviolet light that’s popular everywhere interesting on this world, little strips of it along the ceiling strobing with intricate patterns that match the beat of the pounding music, not like any music I’ve ever heard.

But I’ve seen a club before. Seen the Palanquin when it’s quiet and empty, stood on the dance floor and just _imagined_ what it would be like to stand there when it’s in full swing. I barely look at the club, at the walls and the furniture and the flashing ultraviolet lights. I only have eyes for the _people_.

This whole space is filled with dozens of people. Standing around the bar, dancing together on a slightly raised dance floor, talking and brokering deals in soundproofed and private booths that run along the length of one wall. Crammed together in a great heaving mass in a sunken mosh pit, pressed up against each other in a single crush of humanity and watched over by a DJ on a raised podium as he weaponizes the beat to electrify the crowd.

Most of them, maybe even the vast majority, are modified in one way or another. It’s pretty easy to spot the divides behind the modifications. The brutish or ruthlessly efficient combat mods on hitmen, mercenaries and gangers, leathery skin or heaps of synthetic muscle, legs that bend in different ways and seams on their arms that hide blades. They’re made to be intimidating, modified to be the perfect enforcer, the perfect killer.

Some of the normal looking people who’re talking to them are probably modified in a similar, but more subtle, way. Hidden modifications, subtle enhancement to muscle and bone strength, an armoured layer tucked beneath the skin rather than replacing it. All the appearance of being normal, made to trick people into getting close, getting comfortable, so they can cut them down in a single strike. Faultline, with the blades delicately hidden in her arms, would be one of these people.

And then there are the ones who didn’t modify themselves for combat. The rich kids with too-permissive parents, or a desire to rebel and money to burn, who’ve stitched gold circuitry to their skin, spliced on animal ears and tails or just got so into improving their appearance that they’ve leapt headfirst into the uncanny valley. I probably look like one of them, on the more extreme end of the scale.

And then there are the less well off, who still want to change themselves. The people scraping together enough cash for a little surgery, who come here because they like to immerse themselves in the culture they hope to join one day. They’re the closest to anything I ever saw on Bet, piercings and studs and tattooed sclera.

Of course, the one thing that unites them all are those glowing tattoos Sonnie’s so fond of. Every time the UV lights overhead flicker and pulse, the crowd is lit up in a dizzying spectacle of colour, ranging from small tattoos on people’s shoulders to full-body sleeves with more ink than bare skin.

I stride over to the bar, standing upright even though the counterbalance of my tail makes moving on anything other than all fours a pain. It’s a pain I can deal with, though, and it’s lot better than scrabbling around on the floor like some sort of goblin. The bartender is looking me up and down with a sort of detached fascination. I’m probably one of the wildest looking people she’s seen, but she’s seen wilder. I’m interesting, not fascinating or horrifying. It’s an incredible feeling.

“How _old_ are you?” she asks, her interested look turning into a frown.

“Spider should have called ahead,” I say, leaning on the bar.

“Oh, right,” she says, as a flicker of ultraviolet light illuminates a snarling wolf’s head on her right shoulder. “Well, what’ll it be?”

Now, what was the drink Sonnie recommended?

“A Gene Smasher?”

The woman behind the bar chuckles darkly, then turns back and starts mixing together a whole bunch of different bottles in a way I can’t follow, despite living most of the life I can remember above a nightclub. When she turns back, setting a tall glass in front of me, I can’t help but stare.

“Its… red.”

Not reddish-brown, but a completely opaque block of bright red liquid.

“Yeah, so?”

“Nothing,” I pick the glass up and drink it down in one go. It tastes like a fucking thunderstorm rolling down my tongue, like a punch to the gut by a fist wrapped in sugar. I set the empty glass back on the bar, laugh like a fucking madman for a couple of seconds, then push off it and half walk, half crawl, half run across the length of the club and into the mosh pit.

I press myself into the crowd, thrown this way and that by the writhing mass. I’m wearing a loose-fitting tie-die tank top with a plunging neckline, and probably half the people here are wearing even less than that. It’s intimate, skin-on-skin, people pressing in on me from every side and yet none of them are falling unconscious, there’s no screaming. I’m one with the crowd, and they’re one with me.

There’s an implant on my wrist, a little bit of metal buried under the skin. We tried to make it out of biotech, but my powers kept adapting to anything they could come up with. So, we turned to our new members, the former Cauldron prisoners and prison guards who now work for us. The answer came in a Trump Tinker who specialises in neutralising other powers. A fairly minor operation later, and I’m free to dance to my heart’s content.

I don’t know how long I spend in that pit, surrounded by so many people in so many different shapes and sizes. I don’t even hear the music after a certain point; it’s just sounds, just background noise for the real show, the one that’s happening all around me. I feel warm bodies brushing up against me, my tail snaking its way through the crowd behind me, brushing against pants, skirts and bare legs.

Eventually the flow of the crush shifts as more people press in from outside or slowly make their own way out. I follow them, following the currents as they lead me slowly towards the edge of the mosh pit. As I stagger out onto the main floor of the club, I’m drenched in sweat from head to toe, my tank top clammy and sticking to my chest.

I stagger back over to the bar, slam my hands onto it, and stare at the woman behind it as she watches me, polishing a glass with an unimpressed look on her face.

“There wasn’t any alcohol in that drink, was there?”

“Nope,” she replies, popping the ‘p.’ “The Spider called ahead, yeah, but he called your boss first. She says hi, by the way.”

“So… what does that mean?”

“It means have fun, cut loose, but you’re not getting any alcohol while you’re here.”

I snort, turning around and leaning on the bar as I look out over the club.

“Figures it’d be too good to be true.”

It’s not like Faultline ever let me drink much back in the Palanquin. Like I said, she’s good like that.

“You too, huh?” someone pipes up beside me, speaking up to be heard over the noise.

There’s a girl leaning against the bar next to me, some grey-coloured drink in her hand. And she is a girl; she looks like she can’t be older than sixteen or seventeen. About what they think my age is, not that we’ll ever know for sure. I mean, we could. Maybe there’s a file tucked away somewhere in that big building of ours that’s got who I was written out in black and white? But it wasn’t me, was it? Not in any way that counts.

“Yep, me too. What’s that you got there?”

“Oh, this? They call it a Khanivore. I mean, I guess it’s a mocktail version of a Khanivore, but still.”

Seriously?

“A Khanivore?”

She smiles, taking a sip from her drink. She’s dressed for this place, in a pair of tight-fitting pants and a crop top, but she doesn’t seem to have much in the way of ink. Just a glowing red rose on the right side of her forehead.

“Guessing from the accent that you’re not from around here. Khanivore is an urban legend. About half a year back, a pit fighter got screwed over by a fight promoter. Killed her dead. The legend says that part of her lived on in her Beastie, that she hunts through the Stacks killin’ cheats and _eatin’_ the bodies.”

Sonnie would fucking _love_ this.

“Sounds like quite the girl.”

“Sounds like,” she replies, holding out a hand. “Names Rose. Yours?”

“Newter,” I grip her hand and shake it. She giggles.

“Guess that answers my question.”

“Question?”

“What type you were. You’re pretty young to be so auged up. Was wondering if it was pampering parents who don’t know when to say no, but ‘Newter’ sounds like a merc handle if I ever heard one.”

I smile, stepping off the bar and stretching my arms out to give her a good look at me.

“Got it in one. My Crew made the owner of this joint very rich, so he set things up so I could get in here without being kicked out.”

“Sounds like quite the story.”

I chuckle.

“That’s a fucking understatement. I mean, it’s been _wild_. But how about you? What’s your story?”

“Probably not as impressive. I snuck in here a few times, got caught by the manager. She was real nice… understanding, y’know? I was dealing with some… some real personal shit at the time, and I liked coming here ‘cos these people get what it means to not feel comfortable in your own skin. Finally scraped up the cash to get a little surgery of my own, so I figured I’d come back to celebrate.”

“I think that could make a real nice story. Maybe not as many explosions in it as mine, but nothing’s perfect.”

“Maybe,” she replies, taking a half-step closer and leaning in until there’s only a few inches between us.

“Hey, you wanna grab a booth? We can swap stories, pretend we’re getting drunk,” she walks her fingers up my arm, “talk about life? That sort of thing?”

I smile back at her. I can see the light blue of my eyes reflected in the pupils of hers.

“Why the fuck not, right?”

We cross the floor of the club, ducking and weaving our way through drunk couples trying and failing to dance, crowds of friends talking loud enough to drown out the music. There’s an empty booth, right on the end of the row. I sink deep into the red leather couch as Rose pulls the translucent screen door shut, immediately cutting out almost all the deafening sounds of this place. She slumps onto the couch next to me and I put my arm over her shoulder, gently pulling her in close.

Maybe Gregor had a point.

It feels so much better when it’s _real_.


	123. Epilogue: 17c: Shamrock

I step through the door, the perfect room-temperature of the compound immediately being replaced by the warmth of the sun on my skin, ebbing and flowing with the gentle breeze blowing through the hedgerows. In the copse of trees behind me, the birds take flight, startled by my sudden appearance. I listen to their panicked cries as they fly away, then listen further to hear the gentler calls of distant birds frolicking under the morning sun.

I start walking, stepping out from the partial shade of the small copse and pacing across the length of the field. It hasn’t rained for a while; the ground beneath my feet is hard, but only a little dusty. A good summer, then. I’m glad. The good summers are what stick with me the most, a patch of light among a tainted past that now feels more like the fog of someone else’s memories than anything that actually happened to _me._

I leave the field through a gap in the heath, stepping out onto the hard concrete of the road, marred by dozens of potholes. That, at least, hasn’t changed a bit. I start to walk down the road, occasionally stepping aside as a truck or van passes away, the designs of the vehicles looking outdated to my eyes when, just a few years ago, they would have seemed the pinnacle of technology. That’s more to do with isolation than anything else; even back then, this was still a poor area. Or a humble one, if you’re feeling charitable.

Not that there are many vehicles. It’s a remote area, and people have better things to be doing than _driving_ every which way. For one, it’s a waste of fuel. The only people on the roads are the farmers hauling perishable goods off to market, or the occasional car on who-knows-what business. It’s a welcome change to the bustling roads of Earth Bet, a return to peace and tranquillity of a different sort to the sterile silence of the Cauldron… _our_ compound and all the bad memories it holds.

I hear a sound behind me, the whine of an electric motor and glass bottles rattling against each other, and a smile spreads across my face. I step aside as a milk float rounds the corner, painted in joyful yellow and blue, and driven by a wiry man in early middle age, a young lad in the seat next to him who has to be his son. The boy is wearing his father’s white peaked cap, but it’s much too big for him.

They don’t drive past me, slowing to a stop once they’re level. The young lad tips his hat to me in a polite gesture, while his father leans over a little and speaks.

“Good morning to you, young miss. Have you got far to walk?”

“To Dromineer,” I say with a smile.

“To Dromineer? Why, that’ll take you an hour on foot, at least! Let me give you a lift. We’re slow, sure, and we stop a lot, but it’s a damn sight more comfortable than walking. Faster too.”

I mull it over in my head for a moment, pulling at the fabric of my skirt as I think. In the end, I can’t see any reason not to accept.

“That’s very kind of you, thanks.”

“Think nothing of it,” he rests a hand on his son’s shoulder. “You hop on the back now, lad, let the young lady sit up front.”

The boy, he can’t be more than ten, smiles and steps out of the cab, sitting himself down among the milk bottles on the back of the float, grinning like it’s something he’s wanted to do for ages.

“There’s no need for that,” I begin.

“Nonsense!” he cuts me off. “I’ll not have you being shaken about in the back like a sack of potatoes, not when the boy’s been asking to sit there all day.”

I don’t protest any further, taking my seat and sinking back into it as the milkman sets off, the simple battery-powered engine whining even louder as we go.

“He saw a group of soldiers go through Nenagh the other day, all sitting in the back of one of their trucks. He’d never say it to me, but I think that’s why he was so eager to wear my cap today.”

I don’t miss the flash of worry that passes across his face. I might have, a long time ago, but I’ve leaned better since. I just wish I’d learned it as a way to better understand people, rather than as a way to identify weaknesses.

“You’d rather he grew up to be a milkman.”

“Aye, and nothing wrong with that. It’s a good trade, honest and _reliable_. Worlds change, Troubles come and go, but people will always need their pint of milk in the morning.”

I smile, looking out at the passing fields. We come up to a small farm and the milkman pulls to a stop, stepping out to carry three glass pints up to the front door of the farmhouse. He sets them down, rings the bell, has a quick chat with the farmer and walks back over to the float.

It’s easy to think nothing can change. I know I used to. I used to think my life would be so… simple. I’d go to school, work hard, apply for and get accepted for a religious or secretarial role while I was still young and pretty, then move on to an administrative job once I had the experience and it was time to let someone else move through the ranks. I thought it would be quiet; I didn’t want to be some ambitious climber, I just wanted to find a nice space to call my own and spend the rest of my life in it.

But then Cauldron came and dragged me away from what I _thought_ my life was going to be. I couldn’t adapt to the change, so I broke myself. Reinvented myself completely until nothing remained of that girl.

Took a new name, because the old one didn’t _fit_ anymore.

The float shifts a little as the milkman gets back into the driver’s seat, taking us down the length of the long country road that ends in Dromineer.

“Now why was a young woman like yourself _walking_ all the way to Dromineer? Your family not able to give you a lift?”

“I’ve been away for a very long time, and I didn’t exactly tell anyone I was coming back.”

“You’ve not walked all the way from the station in Nenagh?” he asks, concern creeping into his face. “That’s a very long way. Still, you don’t seem the worse for it.”

It’s not as long as all that. I’d barely been walking ten minutes when he picked me up, but people don’t generally _start_ their journeys in the middle of a field.

“I’ve been taking it slow. I’m in no rush to get there.”

In fact, I’ve been putting it off. Delaying it for weeks, even asking Doormaker to drop me off an hour’s walk away from the village, just so that I could delay myself a little longer. In many ways, being picked up by a milk float might be just what I need to _get_ me there. An hour’s a long time, and it’d be the easiest thing in the world to ask Doormaker to open up a door and get me away from here. That’s not an option with a man sitting next to me.

We continue on the way, making frequent stops as the milkman goes about his morning’s work. Sometimes, when it’s just one house, he handles the delivery himself. At other times he’ll take one house and let his boy handle the other, splitting the work between the two of them but always giving the lighter load to his son. I get out and help them, in spite of the milkman’s half-hearted protests. He gives me the lighter loads as well. It’s been a while since anyone treated me like I was frail, or in need of protection.

I don’t know how I feel about me.

He doesn’t ask me my name, and I don’t ask him his. I’m silently grateful for that. Telling him my name is ‘Shamrock’ would simply raise unwanted questions, questions that I wouldn’t know how to answer. Instead, we talk about the weather, about the football, about anything and everything, really. We’re just passing time.

And then, Dromineer comes into view and it’s like a great weight presses down on my heart. I’m immensely grateful for the milkman’s presence in this moment; If he weren’t here, I’d have opened up a portal and fled back home with my tail between my legs.

I leave the two of them to tend to their rounds, walking through the streets of the achingly familiar village. I barely spent any time here, only really getting to know the place when I was trusted enough to be sent here on errands, but it still _feels_ familiar in a distinctly _wrong_ way. This was _her_ space, it isn’t mine.

But now that I’m here, with the occasional villager going about their business, the rag and bone man pacing down the street beside his horse and cart, I can’t turn back. All I can do is keep walking forwards through the village to the shores of Lough Derg then follow the road along the shore to the next village along, if it’s even worthy of the name.

Killteelagh is nothing more than a collection of scattered houses occupied by cleaners, teachers, staff and the one farmer who refused to move when the land was bought up. All of them inescapably tied to the sprawling expanse of the Dromineer Industrial School.

It’s a walled compound of redbrick buildings built in the functional yet ornate style that was popular in the nineteenth century but has since fallen out of fashion in favour of brutalist architecture that ‘more accurately reflects the humility of the Godly values upon which the Protectorate was founded.’ It’s as familiar to me as the back of my hand.

I walk up the road to the open gateway, leaning against it and peering across the sports field that surrounds the place. Kids are playing in the field in front of one of the older buildings. They’re young, probably in early primary school. Young enough that they still get to play, that their minds haven’t been turned towards expectations and duties yet to come. The older kids will be in class in one of the newer buildings, learning where they’d best fit into the Military, the Magisterium, or the Protectorate as a whole.

They’ll never reach the highest positions of power. To be assigned to an industrial school, one has to be the child of a family who are unfit to have children. For medical, financial or moral reasons. That foul lineage is a cross they’ll have to bear their whole lives, but the graduates this place produces form the core of the civil service that keeps the great ship of state afloat.

One of the staff members helping keep order among the playing children spots me and starts walking across the field, a serious look on her face. She’s comparatively young for staff, maybe in her late twenties, and I can’t help but wonder what she did to be assigned to such an unglamorous post so young.

She’s dressed in the plain black uniform of the magisterium, no chains or medals to speak to some great achievements, nor is she likely to acquire any out here. The children are dressed in black and white uniforms, practical, cheap and hard-wearing. The dourness of them doesn’t match the honest joy of the playing children, or the rich green of the field they’re playing on.

I’m an oddity here, and I know it. In my white blouse, green cardigan and long pleated skirt I couldn’t look more out of place in this sombre institution if I tried.

“Can I help you, miss?” she asks me, suspicion clear in her tone. People don’t come here, not unless they have to. It’s not a military compound, not entirely, but there are a few on-site security who’d be all to happy to toss me out.

“Good morning,” I greet her, putting on my best smile. “I was wondering if Sister Caitlyn was around?”

She stops for a few moments, her posture ramrod-straight as she mulls over whether or not to speak to me further. In the end, she seems to make her decision.

“Sister Caitlyn passed away a year and a half ago. Father Parker runs the school now.”

“Oh. I see.”

It shouldn’t hurt. She was old, already ill when I left, and it’s been _years_. More to the point, the person who knew her no longer exists. Shamrock killed her.

But it still _hurts_.

Some of the arrogance has left the school matron’s posture. She’s seen the emotion on my face and I think she’s just started to realise that I’m not some too-curious local.

“Were you a student here?” she asks, and I nod back.

“I was. A _long_ time ago now. I found myself in the area, decided to see if I could meet with her again. Say some things.”

“I’m sorry,” she replies, and it only slightly sounds like a platitude.

“Was she… was she buried on the grounds?”

She nods. “In the graveyard behind the chapel, yes.”

“Can I see it?”

I don’t know why I asked that.

“I’m sorry-” she begins.

“Please. It doesn’t… it doesn’t feel real right now. I… I guess I thought this place would always stay the same. Seeing the grave would… I think it would help.”

“Alright,” she acquiesces. “But I’ll have to escort you.”

She leads me through the grounds, past the places I used to play, then later the places I used to go to catch up on my required reading, or simply to get away from the bustle of the girls’ dorms. Each building holds hundreds of memories, my past life laid bare before me. Each pulls at my heartstrings in ways that it shouldn’t. I’m not that person anymore.

The graveyard is a simple space, only occupied by former staff who were so tied to this place they were buried here and the occasional student victim of one tragic accident or another. Barely a dozen headstones, lined up in three neat rows on the tiny square of land.

It only takes me a second to find her headstone, the most recent of the bunch. I kneel in front of it and just think for a moment, closing my eyes so I don’t have to look at the place. I think about the person Cauldron made me, about how they twisted my mind and body into a killer, an _assassin_. I think about how they could have twisted me further, how the vial could have mutated me until I no longer recognised my body and how they could have twisted my mind even further until I not even my memories are my own.

I come to realise something, in that moment.

“There’s not a lot about this time in my life I want to remember,” I speak to the dead. “I think I was going through the motions of life, rather than truly living. I think I cast it all away when I could because I didn’t believe it had anything worth preserving. But it did.”

I reach down, brushing my fingertips over the grass.

“I had friends. I had hopes and aspirations, however small they were. I had people who were looking out for me, a headmistress who saw my potential and fought tooth and nail to get me into the Dublin Temple when most of my year went to dead-end posts in the middle of nowhere.”

I take a deep breath, centring myself, and I feel the breeze against my cheek.

“I had a whole life and I threw it all away. The bad, _so_ much bad, but the _good_ too.”

I chuckle to myself, just a little.

“Except I didn’t. I _couldn’t_. It was always there, waiting just beneath the surface. I didn’t lose my memories, I just refused to acknowledge them. Refused to accept that they shaped me too. There are some things about this part of my life I don’t want to forget. I had to come back here to see that, to understand it.”

I stand up, brushing the dirt off my skirt before turning and walking out of the graveyard. The school matron is standing by the little gate, her suspicious look back in full force. She’s obviously been eavesdropping.

She steps forwards, a forced smile on her face as she holds out her hand for a shake.

“I never caught your name.”

I take her hand in my own.

“Sinéad.”

I am the person Cauldron made, but I’m still _me_.


	124. Epilogue: 17d: Gregor the Snail

I straighten my tie, making sure it’s perfectly lined up with the collar of my expensive suit. I reach up, brushing a speck of dust off my shoulders, and fiddle for a moment with my gold cufflinks. I turn on the tap, splashing a small amount of water on my face. Enough that I can feel it, but not enough to drip down onto my suit. All of this, however, is just an excuse.

I’m here to look in the mirror.

The face staring back at me isn’t my own. This is a delicate situation and I can’t let my actual appearance risk… unbalancing matters. I’m not really here; I’m in a rented apartment eight kilometres southwest of here, with a guard detail of four of our Parahuman operatives watching over me while I’m indisposed. The implant in my brain is handling the heavy-lifting, linking me with this meat-puppet.

The body looking back at me from the mirror is imposing, covered in the sort of muscle growth that comes from hard living and hard training, rather than the vain pursuit of muscle for its own sake. The face is weathered, but handsome in a rugged, brutish way. Some might even call it attractive.

It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t fit. Which, I suppose, is rather humorous. After all, this is what I am _supposed_ to look like.

Cauldron’s compound holds many secrets. It is a vast structure, larger than any human could ever hope to fully explore even if they spent their entire life on the task. Most of it is contained within what some worlds call the Ivory Coast, but it has annexes spread across multiple continents, multiple worlds. Not even the Number Man was privy to all their secrets and we are only now beginning to gain an understanding of what it is we have inherited.

One of their secrets, tucked away within the files of their computer system and a few physical vaults that looked like they hadn’t ever seen any visitors besides the Doormaker and the Custodian, was a set of detailed medical records for each and every subject. The documents are principally clinical in nature, listing blood type, pre-existing health conditions, genetic analysis and baseline readings for heart rate and blood pressure.

Blood samples, and enough information to get an idea of who the Subject was in case any complications emerged that could be linked to inherited conditions.

This body was grown with that stored DNA, modelled as closely as possible after the person I used to be, and I hate it.

I hate that I feel _nothing_ when I look at it. No spark of recognition, no sudden revelation that this is who I was _meant_ to be. It is just a face, as anonymous as any other face I used to pass on the streets of Brockton Bay, my deformities hidden beneath a hood to prevent a panic.

I had a name too, but there is no emotion in it.

When I think of Gregor, I think of taking my first steps into an uncertain world, alone and afraid as everyone I met shrank back in horror at my mere _appearance_. I think of better times as well, of the occasional bits of work I took for various gangs, the steady job I held as a bouncer for all of two months. Then Faultline, and the welcoming comforts of the Palanquin, of people who truly understand me.

When I think of the Snail, I think of all Cauldron did to me. Of the conditioning I didn’t even recognise, driving me to hate and to fight and to always _lose_. To be nothing more than a thing, an object bartered and sold. I think also of the great weariness I felt as I learned the truth, of the sense of vindication as Cauldron’s Nemesis came back to haunt them. Of the people who helped me through that dark period.

Compared to that, my real name is nothing. I stood in the place I was born, the little village on the very tip of an Icelandic peninsula, and I tried to find myself. The place was a ruin, flattened by the long-range bombers of the Danish Air Fleet. The broken homes and the shattered ship in the bay should have stirred emotions in me, a sense of great loss. Instead, there was nothing.

I step out of the bathroom and into the neatly-furnished halls of the Ministry for International Trade. My shoes ring out on the marble floor as I walk across the hall to the private lounge that’s been set aside for us. Sinéad is there, wearing a neatly-tailored suit with close-fitting pants rather than a skirt, to ensure she can still move. We have the Morrigan watching over us, working alongside the Clairvoyant and the Doormaker, but Shamrock provides me with the illusion of physical security, as well as an air of mystery.

After all, many find it strange that the six-foot-four musclebound brute is the negotiator, while the elegant and beautiful woman is the bodyguard.

In truth, she could have done the job just as well as I, _if_ she spoke the language. There are many Earths, each with their own distinctions and divergences, but this one was once my own. My language, that on Bet was almost – but not quite – Icelandic, is known on this Earth and sufficient to see me through the negotiations.

The ministry officials have laid out a small platter of food for us, but I haven’t partaken in it. This body is a rush job, grown in a manner of days and reliant on nutrients delivered intravenously in place of a proper digestive system. It can’t operate on its own, unlike Sonnie’s clone, but I’m not sure I would want it to. It doesn’t feel right.

“Sir?” a ministry official addresses me as he steps into the room. He’s wearing a suit too, in a completely different style to mine and Sinéad’s. The point of divergence between this world and Bet occurred well over a millennia ago, making its society and culture almost completely unrecognisable.

“The Minister is ready for you now.”

I thank the man, following him through the ornate halls of the ministry, beneath the skeleton of an immense whale stretched between the ceiling beams. Paintings cover the walls, almost all of them displaying ships powering through stormy seas on flimsy sails, smoke-belching coal funnels or modern engines. An immense maritime tradition, and a tradition for bringing trade to new frontiers.

Which is, of course, where we come in.

I greet the Minister with a smile, shaking his hand and turning my head to look at the cameras filling the room, half a dozen reporters from state and private media to document this monumental occasion. Behind me, Sinéad sets her briefcase down on a table and opens it up, removing a single document contained within a red-leather folder bearing the image of a palanquin etched into it with gold leaf.

The Minister signs the document and I do the same afterwards, both of us smiling for the photographers. Then I take the folder in one hand and shake the minister’s hand with the other, again posing for the cameras, before we’re finally done with this staged charade. The real work has already been handled; the agreement set in stone long before this opportunity.

But image is important. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be wearing this flesh.

There’s a convoy of vehicles waiting for us outside the Ministry, with an escort of armed Watch officers and another detachment keeping back the crowd. We walk down the steps side-by-side, waving to the crowd. On this Earth, the government chose to establish itself within the Roman walls of the City of London, rather than carving out their own space in Westminster. A minor divergence, but one that affected the way the rest of the city grew and spread.

Shamrock and I do not talk as our vehicle winds its way through the streets. She seems as uncomfortable around this body as I am in it. She knows it isn’t me, not really, and I am grateful for that fact. It’ll be nice to set it aside again and feel the breeze on my own skin.

Outside the window, a Watch motorcycle speeds past with red lights flashing, pulling ahead as part of a constant stream of motorcycles blocking the roads off on either side of our convoy, to ensure a speedy passage to our destination. We travel East, leaving the ornate streets of the capital for an endless procession of docks and quays filled with ships and containers bound for the four corners of the world.

On other Earths, this stretch of riverside property has long since been consumed by enormous financial institutions, the volume of maritime trade dropping off or being moved further out towards the sea. But the Greater Danemark prides itself on its maritime tradition, and so has kept the docks close to the very heart of its state. A perfect site for a whole new avenue of trade.

The land has already been cleared for us, one warehouse in a whole district of similar structures demolished and ringed by fences and checkpoints. Already new roads and rail lines are being built, the infrastructure of the city shifting to meet the change with open arms. The media circus is here, but they’re kept back from the main site by a cordon of Watch officers and soldiers.

We put a limit on the number of soldiers they could have at this, but by allowing them to bring a few dozen we’ve helped assuage their slight fear of an extradimensional invasion. There isn’t really a way of calming tensions completely, and the process of actually getting people in the Danemark government aware of where we came from and what we’re selling turned a few heads, but the benefits far outweigh the potential costs.

I get out of the car, walking across to where the Minister is standing in the middle of the warehouse, just beyond the exclusion zone marked out by a circle of white paint fifty feet across. He’s staring out over the empty expanse of concrete, eagerness and more than a little wariness clear to see on his face.

“This is your last chance to back out,” I say, standing next to him. “This isn’t like the portal I used to get here. Once a breach is made, it _cannot_ be unmade. You can brick it up, cover it in concrete, but it will still be there.”

“We’re not backing down,” he replies, his voice firming. “Not with the whole world watching.”

“Very well,” I reply, glancing at the expensive watch on my wrist. Thirty seconds.

I count down the moments in my head, wishing that I was actually here to see this, rather than acting remotely through this puppet.

At exactly midday, the air in front of me is torn and reshaped, twisting and contorting for a few moments in a sickening display of misshapen space flecked with white tears as a doorway is ripped into existence. A second later and it coalesces, space shifting until it bends in on itself, opening a window to another world. The process is over in an instant, but it leaves the Minister torn between entrancement and illness at the unnatural sight.

His illness fades, however, leaving only wonder behind.

Faultline steps through the portal, the Morrigan floating behind her. Every Earth we have touched has its own standards, its own traditions. In some, heads of state are expected to dress down, to wear suits and civilian clothes. In others, this world included, heads of state go uniformed. Faultline is dressed in a black formal uniform, her face unmasked. It’s a message, just like the Morrigan is.

Faultline is dressed in a way that demands respect, while the Morrigan represents opportunity. A floating advertisement for our services, and a testament to the powers we can bring to bear on anyone who breaks their contract with us. It’s an implied threat hidden inside a beautiful body and the warm smile Faultline wears as she steps up to shake the hand of the Minister.

“Might I introduce Melanie Fitts, the leader of Palanquin.”

“A pleasure to finally meet you, Minister.”

As she greats him, I look through the portal at what little I can see of the city on the other side. _Our_ city. The sight fills me with all the emotions that were lacking from the home I grew up in, just as seeing Faultline again evokes the response I was expecting when I saw my face in the mirror for the first time.

Ever since I left Indianapolis, I have been consumed by the search for answers. I no longer understood my place in the world, and I thought learning where I came from would help with that. Perhaps it was simply my Nemesis conditioning reacting to the death of Weatherglass, the loss of my programmed purpose. Regardless of the cause, I threw everything I had into that search, donating seventy percent of my salary towards finding the answers that now feel so inadequate.

“I would like to be the first to welcome your world to our interdimensional community,” Faultline says, entirely unaware of my internal struggle. I have never burdened her with my internal problems. It did not seem appropriate, and it still doesn’t.

“So,” Faultline continues, her language passable. She learned the words she needed for this speech, and no more. “Minister Erichsen of the Greater Danemark of Earth Twenty-Four, welcome to Earth Zero.”

“I am sure we will both profit from the arrangement,” the Minister smiles back.

What a wonderful thing we have built. What an incredible achievement it is. How can the accomplishments of my lost life ever hope to compare to the city on the other side of that portal, to the two dozen different worlds who meet there to trade and barter? Let Aleph, Bet and Gimel wall themselves off in splendid isolation. Earth Zero will open our doors to the rest of the Multiverse, so that all may profit.

How can that sterile, lifeless, history I have assembled possibly compare to the life I lived on Earth Bet, to the struggles and trials we all endured on our hunt for that passionless answer? I spent my days pining after the life I could never recover, failing to appreciate the value of the life I had built with Palanquin. The life Faultline gave me.

I was looking for purpose in my past, yet I failed to realise that I had made my own purpose with people who cared about me, in a home that would always be there for me. I am not Brimir Sigurvinsson. I am Gregor, now and always. Newter was right, in a way; who I _was_ does not matter when compared to who I _am_. I was so caught up in the past that I failed to understand the value of the present.

I am my own person. I always have been.


	125. Epilogue: 17e: Scrub

I don’t think I can ever go back to the way things were before. Back in what now feels like a distant past, even though it’s barely been a couple of months. I think back to those years of memories, of life, and it’s like I don’t recognise the person in them anymore. How could I think like that, how could I take _so_ much for granted when it can all be ripped away in a _second_? When it _was_ ripped away?

I can’t ever go back to living like that. I mean, I couldn’t go back regardless thanks to the whole glowing orifices situation, and the smoke, but those are just the visual tells. The real issue is that I can’t ever unsee what I’ve seen, can’t ever go back to taking the little things like food, shelter, electricity or clean water for granted. Even now, I’m fucking _amazed_ by the piping hot coffee in my hand. I didn’t even _drink_ coffee before Leviathan, didn’t see the value of hot water until I didn’t have any. And, once I didn’t have it, there wasn’t anything I wanted more.

I was carefree, in ways I’m not anymore. It’s not just because of what I lost and gained back, it’s because of what I did. I know that when the chips are down and everything else seems lost, I’m not the hero of the story. I’m one of the bastards who decided to twist the situation to his advantage, to prioritise my own safety… my own fucking _comfort_ over everything else. Never mind that we were hooking refugees on drugs with their food to make sure they were dependant on us even when the relief workers finally stepped up their game. Never mind every sick, twisted _trial_ Skidmark made me participate in.

I’m a murderer, a killer, and I can’t ever go back to the time when I wasn’t. In the Merchants, I didn’t think I’d ever be anything more than that. I’d thought I’d sunk so far that there wasn’t any way left for me to drag myself out of the pit. I’m a killer, and I though that’s all I would ever be.

I’m glad I was wrong.

Somethings playing on the TV, but I’m not really paying attention. TVs not great here, anyway. You’d think with twenty-seven different Earths linked up to this city the TV would be the absolute best of the best, but everyone’s still trying to find their feet. Comedy’s got the worst of it. A lot of dramas have some degree of universal appeal, but too many comedians rely on references or political ‘humour’ that just doesn’t translate to audiences from another Earth.

The view out the window is a _lot_ more interesting. The benefit of building a city from scratch is that you get to pick out the best views before anyone else has a chance. I can see the whole city from the window of our arcology, the polyp-grown Earth One infrastructure mingling with mismatched blocks of buildings built just about anywhere and everywhere. It doesn’t have much of a presence yet, most of the city is still largely unbuilt green fields, but the infrastructure is in place for future growth.

We couldn’t have built any of this without Earth One’s tech and industry, but all they got in return was an exemption from the five percent tariff we charge on all goods passing through Earth One. Given how much that will eventually amount to, it’s more than a fair price.

I turn away from the window at the sound of the break room opening. There’s an almost absurd amount of space in this building, but we’re only actually _using_ a tiny part of it. The rest is the residences of the new hires we picked up in Cauldron, very few of whom were keen to stay in that sterile white compound, space for the labs and industries of our own investment, a central system to handle the stock market of the various companies that’ve made Earth Zero their home and a whole lot of empty space for future expansion.

It means that I’m not that surprised when Faultline walks into the breakroom, crosses over to the coffee machine and makes herself a cup. It’s nice to have a space where everyone meets, even if I’m still a lot more comfortable talking to Faultline or the new hires than I am the rest of the original members of Palanquin. Original, in this case, meaning members who joined before the attack on Cauldron. I barely qualify, but I fit in a lot better than I used to.

“How’re you holding up, boss?” I ask as she slumps down into a comfortable armchair across from me.

“Not you too,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I get enough of that from Sonnie.”

“Hey, I called my last boss ‘Skids.’ It could always be worse; I _could_ call you Miss Fitts.”

She groans, before fixing me with a frankly terrifying stare.

“I mean, think about it!” I say, smiling back at her. “Miss Fitts and her Misfits! Marketing would love it,” something like a snarl this time, as a flash of inspiration strikes me and I grin from ear to ear, smoke pouring out of my mouth as I try to speak past my uncontrollable laughter. “Or Melanie Fitts and her Felony Mitts!”

I mime little punches in the air, forgetting the hot cup of coffee in my hand. Luckily, I didn’t spill much. Faultline doesn’t respond, except to roll back the sleeve of her left arm and split her skin along hidden seams to reveal a razor-sharp blade of synthetic bone.

“Okay, okay, I get it!” I put the hand not holding my coffee up in a gesture of surrender. “Faultline it is! You know, this is a real hostile work environment you’ve got here.”

Except it isn’t. Not really. Not when compared to the way things _used_ to be. With Skidmark… it was like working with an old bomb that’s been dug out of some swamp somewhere. It’s rusted through, barely holding itself together, and everyone knows it’s going to go off. It was never a question of if, but when. Sometimes he’d be chatting to one of the guys, just shooting the shit, only something he heard would piss him off and the next thing you know the guy’s trying to climb out of a woodchipper made slick with Skidmark’s power. That kind of psycho shit.

I felt like I was walking on eggshells, like at any point I was going to piss him off. He couldn’t get close to me, not with my power, but there wasn’t anything I could do if he wanted to shoot me. But that wasn’t shit compared to the things I did. I’d say ‘the things he made me do,’ but that just feels like deflection.

I heard a lot of people say that powers are only made for destroying, but I know that’s not true. My power doesn’t _destroy_ anything. It leaves structures alone, doesn’t touch buildings or walls or the landscape. It just _kills_. It just cuts its way through crowds in a random scatter of blood and death, indiscriminate murder waiting at my fingertips.

‘Letting it out.’ Shit, that fits. It’s not like a switch I can turn on or off. It’s always there, waiting just beneath the surface. It doesn’t wait peacefully, either; it shakes itself against its bonds, waiting for me to make a single fucking slip so that it can force its way out.

At least now the killing itself doesn’t feel so bad. As sad as it sounds, I have gotten used to the sight of hallways filled with mutilated corpses. At least nowadays the people I kill are trying to kill me, it’s not just part of some sick trial or an execution or just so Skidmark could play ‘Amputee’ and place bets on which limb the victim was going to lose first.

It still hurts, don’t get me wrong. I’d be worried if it ever stopped hurting, to be honest, but at least there’s a reason behind it. It makes it a little easier to swallow the bile back down.

“So, who is it this time?” I ask Faultline in a last-ditch attempt to take my mind off my power. Even fucking _thinking_ about it almost has it breaking free.

“They’re an absolute monarchy, of sorts,” she says, looking out the window. “I haven’t been able to find a clear point of divergence but something happened that stopped the Roman Empire from ever forming. Which means radical linguistic and cultural issues, but it’s a good test-bed for what it’ll look like when we bring in some of the more extremely divergent worlds. I’ve been handling the negotiations in person, with the Morrigan acting as a translator, largely because I want to see how they react to a woman in a position of authority.”

“Take it they weren’t too keen on the idea?”

She smiles.

“Not enough that they weren’t tempted by what I had to offer. Over two thousand years of divergent development has left them with radically different technologies than exist on most of the Earths linked up to Zero. They can bring a lot to the table, provided they can restrain their more… opportunistically violent tendencies.”

“And if not, that’s what the other twenty-seven are for.”

“Exactly.”

Back… well, ‘home’ doesn’t quite fit it anymore. Back on Earth Bet, when contact was made with a parallel earth at the height of the Cold War, people pretty much shat themselves. Bet was terrified Aleph would put a nuke through and Aleph was terrified that Bet would open more portals and drop the Triumvirate right into the Oval Office. That breach was tiny compared to the one’s we’ve built on Earth Zero, and the idea that an Earth or a coalition of Earths could seize control of the city is a valid concern.

One we’ve solved by employing the ancient tactic of strength in numbers. All things considered, we don’t ask much of our customers. There’s the five percent tariff on all goods passing through the city, pretty standard as far as trade tariffs go. They’re also not supposed to allow any chemical, radiological, biological or nuclear weaponry to be detonated near the gate, whether that’s industrial accidents or getting into the sort of war where those weapons are commonplace. Apart from that, each Earth agrees to come to the defence of Earth Zero if it ever gets attacked. An individual Earth can’t hope to overcome dozens more and, the more Earths we add, the safer it gets.

It’s also a handy bit of insurance against… other threats. Just in case.

Faultline stands up, looking at her watch as she washes her mug off in the sink.

“It’s time I was getting back to Twenty-Eight, actually. Besides, I need time to get into that ridiculous outfit. The things that pass for formalwear on some of these Earths…”

“We still on for midday?” I ask.

“We’re still on. There’s just some ceremony left, but I’ve made sure they’re all aware of the importance of punctuality.”

Left unspoken is that she’d like me to be punctual as well. I wave goodbye as she steps through a Doormaker portal, then go back to my coffee. It’s gone cold, but nothing’s perfect. The TVs moved on now, playing some film from… from whatever Earth it’s from, I don’t know. It’s sci-fi, which means there’s even less clues to help me guess.

An hour passes, without much really happening. I just sit there, watching the film play out on the TV. It’s not good, but I really should have expected that. No stations runs the good films in the morning, I remember that much from before Leviathan. Still, it’s nice to be able to just sit back and watch, safe in the sure knowledge that the Chosen aren’t going to try pushing up against the border, that the power isn’t going to suddenly go out or that someone isn’t going to start passing out the used needles.

I don’t get to watch all the film, but I wasn’t really paying attention to it anyway. It was just… background noise to help me thing. Gregor’s come to get me, so I follow him through the sleek modern halls of the arcology and down an elevator into the garage. There’re a few helipads on the roof, but they’re more for use when the city is busy enough that going by road becomes too slow and too much of a potential security risk to consider.

As it stands, there’s still a heavy security detail waiting for us. The Morrigan is good, and with the Doormaker and the Clairvoyant she’s _awesome_ , but she can’t be in two places at once. Instead, I’ve got a team of Deviants waiting for me. I don’t know whose idea it was to call our operatives after Cauldron’s term for mutated experiments – probably Sonnie’s – but the name’s stuck. They’re a mismatched bunch, their armour shaped specifically for their irregular bodies, but I greet the ones I know by name, and learn the names of the others.

It’s a different dynamic here, without the constant dick-measuring and the threat of violence that filled the Merchants. It’s professional, maybe even a little corporate at times, but people here really _get_ each other. After all, most of us have pretty similar stories.

I get in the back of an armoured transport with Gregor and Elle. It’s not as bleak as it sounds; the vehicle has all-around cameras projecting an image of the outside world onto screens that line the interior of the vehicle, and the seats are plush leather rather than military canvas. Elle’s quiet as usual, withdrawn now that she’s out of her garden, but that’s okay. She’s got Gregor to look out for her right now.

It doesn’t take us long to get out to the site. It’s all new growth, built on the exact location specified by Earth Twenty-Eight’s government. It only took a day, but I guess it doesn’t take long to flatten a bit of ground and build it up to the right height with a whole bunch of concrete. The land around the hard standing is empty, untouched by nature, but it won’t stay that way for long. Pretty soon it’ll all be bought up by Twenty-Eight, as their presence on this world grows and grows, and the city will get just a little larger.

We get out of the APC, the Deviants dismounting from the escort vehicles to form a perimeter around us while Elle gets to work. She starts to grow a tower, keeping it exactly within the boundaries of a perfectly-measured circle of white paint. As the tower twists into shape, she steps back, her half of the job done.

I step forwards and let my power out, filling the air around me with enough white flashes that I can’t even see the brilliant white of the portal as it connects to that strange null-space between worlds. I wrestle with my power, fighting to get it under control again, to shackle it beneath the mantras and meditations Faultline made sure I learned. It really is a wild beast, a killer I’ve kept chained up for too long.

I’m able to get it under control, but I know it’s just temporary. I’ll need to go somewhere later and properly let it out, otherwise my control might slip at the worst possible moment. When Labyrinth slips, the floor might change colour. When I slip, someone’s probably going to die.

It’s why I don’t like being around other people. I’m constantly worried that I’ll fuck up and hurt someone, or even just give them a scare. It’s why I take my breaks in rooms that’re a little off the beaten track… which probably means Faultline deliberately went out of her way to talk to me, because she knows I’m barely talking to anyone else.

_Definitely_ better than the Merchants.

Labyrinth is standing by the portal, watching Gregor closely as he stares intently at his watch, counting down the seconds out loud. Once it hits zero, Labyrinth takes hold of the portal and twists it, filtering through worlds until she finds the one we’re looking for, then pulling it to the front to fill the whole space.

Faultline steps through from the other side, the Morrigan floating behind her, arm-in-arm with some sleazy looking official. I have to say, she’s right. The formalwear on Earth Twenty-Eight looks absolutely ridiculous. Still, I can’t help but smile as I look over the procession of curious people as they step through the portal and see another world for the first time, looking out in wonder at the arcology looming in the distance, the first skyscrapers that’re starting to creep upwards and the intricate network of roads and railways that were more grown than built.

My power kills. It’s what it’s _for_ , and I’ll never be able to truly escape that. In the Merchants, that’s all I ever was. I was lost, stuck in a downward spiral without any clear way out. When it went up in flames, when I saw the Slaughterhouse Nine butchering their way through hundreds of people, my first thought was that somehow things had managed to get even _worse_.

But now, looking out at the incredible city we’re building, at the endless possibilities of this place and the eager smiles on the people filing through the portal, I can’t help but think how lucky I am.

Most powers destroy, but my power is only good for killing. And yet, I’ve found a way to use it to _build_.


	126. Epilogue: 17f: Labyrinth

I fell asleep in a tree again. I didn’t mean to; I just woke up that way.

Emily doesn’t like it when I sleep in trees, though maybe that’s because I sometimes accidentally turn her bed into a tree as well. She thinks it’s bad for my back, that it can’t be comfy, but that’s not right. I mean, the twigs and leaves mess up my hair, but so do regular beds! It’s just… Sometimes my mind wanders, to a warm field of grass on a sunny hill, cool marble against my back or vines and tree branches cradling me high in the air, and my power makes it happen.

I lower the branches of the tree, the trunk bending in a gentle bow until I’m low enough that I can just step off and onto the ground beneath the tree. It’s soft and spongy, made from the image of decades of fallen leaves on some other world. In places, the packed leaves have rotted away under the surface, leaving pitfalls that can catch people by surprise.

This world isn’t as dangerous as most of my others, but it still has its traps. The pitfalls are just part of it. Vines hang down from the treetops, ready to coil and constrict like snakes whenever someone brushes up against them. Some of the plants are covered in thorns that catch and scrape against clothes or skin, mostly the ones closer to the ground.

But that’s it. It doesn’t actively hunt people like some of my other worlds, like the ever-creeping fire of the burning towers or the constant violence of the Bad Place. The dreaming rainforest is exactly that; a dream. It’s made from the dull emotions that come from sleep, the people who step into it finding themselves gently guided down paths through the forest, paths that wind in random, twisting directions. Where there are traps, they’re like faint nightmares that wait for people to stumble into them.

I like it, even though it’s a little dangerous. It’s always warm, dryer than you’d expect a rainforest to be, and the canopy high overhead twists and shapes the sunlight in really interesting ways, projecting wonderous patterns onto the forest floor and leaving the whole place in beautiful twilight. It’s calming, somewhere I go when I need to relax, or somewhere I bring out when I am relaxed. My feelings are so tied to these worlds, it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference.

I brush aside a curtain of vines, stepping across a hidden pitfall, without worrying about hurting myself. There’s nothing in my own head that can hurt me, I understand that now. Even the bad place is meant to hurt others, rather than myself. It wraps me up in straightjackets, shuts me away in cells, because it’s trying to _protect_ me, to keep me safe from a dangerous world. It’s a reflection of my mind at a time I can’t remember anymore, because I poured it all into that world. When I used to feel like everything around me was a threat, and the only way to keep myself safe was to lock myself away from the world.

The dreaming forest was made by my mind, but it’s also a real place. I used to wonder where all these places came from, if my mind was really filled with rusted iron railings, clinical corridors and surfaces stained with long-dried blood. Thinking like that just made it worse, and the psychologists didn’t help. They all really enjoyed analysing dreams and they saw me as someone who brought her dreams into the real world. They saw me as a monster, even if they never said it to my face. Only a monster could dream up such horrible places, could have dreams that kill and hurt and do nothing else.

We know better now. _I_ know better now. My worlds are shaped by my emotions, yes, but there’s so much more to it than that. I felt sad or isolated or trapped, and my power filtered through worlds to find one that matched those feelings, then it made it real. Later, with Faultline, I learned to pick and choose which emotions went into my world, to target my power until it found worlds that reflected my greatest triumphs, or feelings of safety and sanctuary.

I used to think there was something wrong with me, that my powers made my head so much smaller than everyone else, so much more alone. I thought that was why I had such a hard time paying attention to the real world, why I sometimes forgot how to talk or lost whole days in a haze.

Now I know the truth. I’m not stupid, and I’m not crippled. My head’s too big, not too small. It’s hard to focus on just one Earth, when my power is meant to look at dozens, _hundreds_ , at a time.

Faultline said it’s like trying to use a telescope to read a book.

I walk through the rainforest, feeling every leaf and every tree through my power. Something’s not right; it’s too large. My room isn’t this big, and I think that means I’ve spilled out into the neighbouring rooms. I haven’t made a mistake like this in months. The others must be worried sick about me, if they can even find me among the trees.

I start to pull my power back, but it’s hard. It’s a lot easier to pull something through than it is to get rid of it, but the edges of the forest slowly start to withdraw, creeping back into the rest or simply fading into nothing. But, instead of the warren of rooms I was expecting, there’s nothing, just a flat expanse of the strange material our building was grown from.

I step around a tree, and suddenly it all makes sense. Ahead of me, there’s a clearing in the forest, where my power hasn’t touched. At the centre of the clearing, an enormous pillar of beautiful white light stretches up into the sky. To most people, that’s all they’d see, but I can see the shapes moving within the light itself. Other worlds, more than even I can count.

The tension in me eases and I step out into the clearing. I’m not in my room; I’m in my garden.

Calling it a garden might not be quite right. It’s a flat expanse recessed into the roof of our arcology, surrounded on all sides by towering blocks of offices, lounges and apartments. It’s a blank canvas just waiting to be filled, and it’s all mine.

In the Palanquin, I had to suppress my power, to constantly stop it from seeping into our rooms or the club, but the garden is a safe space for me to really let loose. I must have wandered here in the night. I do that sometimes, following some trail only I can see. Once, long ago now, I even left the Palanquin. I don’t remember much about that night, just flashes of the cold, of concerned strangers and the constrictive space of an open van. I lost control, running into the sewers and turning them into a nightmare of rusted iron spikes and decaying brickwork. Then Faultline found me, took me home, and gave me a mug of hot chocolate to deal with the cold.

I walk across the courtyard, the forest expanding just a little bit ahead of me so that I’m walking on the bed of fallen leaves, rather than the cold concrete of the roof. Now that I know where I am, I don’t need to worry about holding my power back. Instead, I push it outwards, filling the space from end to end with thick jungle. All except for the area around the breach. Even asleep, I know better than to let the two touch.

So I bring the forest up to the edge of the void, growing a tall tree and pulling the roots up out of the ground like a mangrove, twisting and curling them into comfortable seat moulded perfectly to the contours of my body. I stretch my legs out, more roots growing to keep them raised up until I’m half-sitting, half-reclining, next to the beautiful white void.

I look at it, or I look past it, taking in the wonderous worlds waiting just below the surface. I look deeper, seeing worlds without pulling them forwards and forcing them into the portal. It’s so easy to take it all in, seeing worlds in their entirety when sometimes I can’t see someone whose standing right in front of me.

I pick one at random, a desolate and barren planet on which life never took hold, or died long before I ever got the chance to see it. It’s beautiful, in its own way. A haunting, empty sort of beauty with sands that stretch forever, slowly shaping and being resharpen by the tides of dead oceans.

Another world is larger, and it has no tides, no moon in the sky overhead. There’s life here, alien and strange, existing only at the bottom of the oceans. I watch them swim about, trying and failing to understand the purpose behind each action. I can’t even tell if they’re animals or people.

I turn my vision back to a familiar world, the one I was born on. This planet teems with life, billions of people moving from place to place. I see it in its entirety, taking everything in at once. It’s more than I should be able to handle, more than my mind should be able to take in at once, but my power helps lighten the load.

This is what it was _made_ for. I know that somehow. It watches hundreds, thousands of universes at once, interpreting and cataloguing that information for its host so that it can see all, know all. It wasn’t meant for me, wasn’t meant for a mind too small to understand the information it transmits.

All I could ever handle were snapshots of the truth, little pieces of the greater whole gathered in my mind and pushed through into the space around me. Even that cost me. It cost me more than I think I’ll ever know.

When Faultline asked me my name, I didn’t have any answer to give her except Labyrinth, but I knew even then that wasn’t a proper name. Elle wasn’t a proper name either, just a nickname one of the doctors gave me, but it seemed like it fit a little better. I can’t remember my real name. Can’t remember parents or friends or anything before I got my power. At least I remember my new family, even if I’m not always able to see them.

Someone’s moving through the forest, brushing through vines that part easily for her. My subconscious, recognising a friend. I can’t see her, but I can feel the weight of her footsteps, the outline of her body as she pushes through vines and brushes up against vines. I smile, creating a path for her through the forest. Not a direct one, but one that’ll take her through a nice scenic route.

Across from me, another tree starts to rise up out of the ground. I shift its shape, changing the way it grows and altering the shape it forms until its roots make up another seat, just like mine. Above my head, I pull back the canopy to let some of the open sky down into the forest, lighting up the grove I’ve made.

I keep the portal in sight as Emily walks into the grove, the foliage sealing itself back up behind her. She smiles at me as she walks across the grove, smiling a little wider as I point out the seat I made for her. I smile back, but I don’t lose sight of the portal.

My power is meant for this, for looking and seeing everything at once. So long as its attention is occupied by the portal, it weighs a little lighter on my mind. It makes it easier to think, to hear and to _understand_.

“Here you are,” Emily says as she sits down. “I got a little worried when you weren’t in our room.”

“I must have wandered off,” I frown. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Emily leans forwards. “You’ve got nothing to apologise for. Besides, I can’t exactly blame you. This place is beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I grin. “I’m glad you came to say hi.”

I was worried when we moved into this massive building, with all its space, that she wouldn’t want to share a room anymore. It can’t have been easy for her, sleeping with someone so… so dangerous just a few feet away from her. It can’t be easy for her on my worst days, when I can’t brush my hair, or do my teeth, or wash up properly and put on my own clothes.

I was worried now that we have a lot of money, they’d just hire someone to do all that work instead and things would be like they were back in the Asylum, only _worse_ because now I know what it’s like when its better. Instead, we still share a room and she still helps me out when I need it.

And I’m still _happy_.

“See anything interesting today?” Emily asks, looking up at the portal.

I owe Melanie and the others a lot. They say I don’t, but I do. They took me in, helped me find a life and a family when I didn’t have any before. I need their help all the time, so the least I can do is help them out when I can! It’s my way of returning all the kindness they’ve shown me.

Normally when I come here, I bring a little notebook with me. My handwriting isn’t great, but I’m slowly getting better at it. In this little notebook, I’ll write down everything I can see about a world. How many people are there? Are they human, or something else? Do they mostly live in cities or out on their own? Do they have capes of their own? She uses my notes to decide which worlds I should bring through into the city and which should be left alone.

“I found one without a moon,” I tell her. “I don’t know if there are people or just animals, but there are a lot of things moving around in the bottom of the oceans. It’s kind of cool, like an upside-down world. All the lights and colours are in the ocean, while the ground is grey and lifeless.”

“It sounds beautiful, in its own way.”

I nod back, then lean forwards in my seat and look at her intently.

“What about you? Are you looking forward to tomorrow?”

“I’m…” she pauses, hesitating. I’m getting better at telling how people are feeling just by looking at them. “I guess I’m nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“It’s been _ages_ , and I don’t know anyone here. Not like Newter will be there or…”

_Or me._

“I wish I could come,” I murmur, more to myself than to her.

“Oh, Elle… I know,” she smiles, trying to reassure me. “I wish you could come as well, but your tutor says you’re doing _really_ well at the moment. Maybe you’ll be able to go in a few months?”

“Maybe,” I smile, more to make her happy than anything else. “I’m getting better at my handwriting, and my math as well.”

There’s so much I don’t know, so much I never had the chance to learn. I’ll never be able to live a normal life, and I’ve made peace with that fact. With the portal keeping me grounded, I can start to catch up on my writing, my maths, my _friendships_ and my _family_ but I can’t ever hold onto it for long when I step away from this little garden.

It’s still a better life than I ever dreamed I’d be able to have.


	127. Epilogue: 17g: Spitfire

I can feel the vibrations of the road through the glass. I’m leaning up against it, staring out at the buildings as we pass them. This is one of the denser neighbourhoods in the city, built up between four different portals who’ve jumped headfirst into trade and commerce. Everything’s new, and we’re driving on the wrong side of the road, but apart from that I could be back in any city on Bet.

Well, maybe not Brockton Bay. There’s an optimism here, the thrill of something new and exciting. It’s in how people walk, how they hold themselves. They’re rushing because they’ve got somewhere to be, because they want to stay on the cutting edge, not because every second they spend on the streets means exposing themselves to risk. Their heads are held high because they’re _proud_ of what they’re doing, what they’re building, not because they need to keep their eyes wide open in case the people around them aren’t what they seem.

It may not seem like much, but it makes all the difference in the world.

I still don’t quite feel like I’d fit in out there, no matter how much I might want to. Back in the Palanquin… the _old_ Palanquin, my room was filled with all sorts of rubbish. Gossip magazines, posters, books, more CDs than I could even count. I knew it wasn’t normal, the way I was living. Normal girls don’t live above nightclubs, they can’t leave the city for weeks at a time. They can’t spit fire from their mouths, either, but that’s beside the point.

I didn’t fit into that normal world anymore. I didn’t when I was living on the streets, and I definitely didn’t after Melanie recruited me. But I still missed it, and I recognised that. It’s why I filled my room with all the things I used to talk to my friends about, back when I still went to school. It’s why I played my music to drown out the sounds of the club, why I wore civilian clothes whenever I could even though they didn’t really feel like _me_ anymore. In a way, I guess I was trying to become two people.

Spitfire is a badass. She’s cold, uncaring, she does what’s necessary. She takes after Faultline, after Khanivore or Gregor the Snail, because they seemed to move through the world I’d found myself in more confidently than I could ever hope. With my gasmask, with the padding of my fireproof costume, I’m almost androgynous. Less a person than a force of nature.

Emily… Emily doesn’t take after any of them. She’s the person I was before all this, the person I liked to pretend to be even though I couldn’t really _be_ her outside of the Palanquin. I like wearing bright clothes that fit well, bringing out all the life that Spitfire didn’t have. I like looking after Elle, because it feels like I’m giving something _back_. My power burns stuff down, it’s what it’s _for_ , but that doesn’t mean I can’t help Elle grow.

I’m not sure Emily is ready to step back out into the real world again, but if it’s possible anywhere it’s possible here. This is a new city on a new world. The people here are stretching the boundaries of what’s possible, pooling knowledge while thousands of tonnes of resources pass through it every day. If there’s anywhere I could hope for a fresh start, it’s here.

“How are you holding up?” Melanie asks. I turn away from the window to look at her, impeccably dressed as per usual in a sharp-looking suit made for the boardroom.

“You don’t have to be here, you know…” I murmur.

“I don’t?” she replies, smiling. “I thought this was about getting back to normal?”

“Normal?” I smirk. “How exactly is this normal?”

I fix her with a look, which is easy enough to do as she’s sitting in the back with me, then flick my eyes over to the driver’s sunglasses in the rear-view mirror. He chuckles.

“She’s got a point, ma’am.”

“Okay,” Melanie throws her hands in the air, “so maybe it’s not _completely_ normal, but it’s about as close as it gets. I’m dropping you off, and that’s final. I’m putting my foot down on this. Which, by the way, is _also_ normal.”

“Okay, okay, you win,” I lean back into my seat, closing my eyes and drumming a little rhythm into the plush leather.

“You know,” Melanie says after another few minutes, “as clever as that deflection was, don’t think I didn’t notice you avoiding my question. How _are_ you holding up?”

I stop drumming, opening my eyes and slumping forward a little in my seat.

“I don’t know. No, wait, that’s not right.” I look up at her, smiling. “I’m a bundle of nerves, hardly slept at all last night. I mean, it’s been so _long_.”

“You’re forgetting that this is new for everyone else as well,” Melanie replies, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Nobody’s going to know each other, so all you have to do is make a good impression.”

She cuts me off before I can say anything.

“And I _know_ you can do that.”

“That doesn’t stop me being nervous.”

“Of _course_ it doesn’t,” she laughs, “but there’s something you need to understand.

She moves her hand onto my other shoulder and pulls me in close, whispering into my ear.

“Everyone else will be nervous as well, but they haven’t got as much courage in their whole bodies as you have in your little finger.”

I guess it does seem a little silly being so afraid of this when I once fought the Slaughterhouse Nine, but that was _Spitfire_. It’s different when I’m Emily.

Isn’t it?

“We’re pulling up now, ma’am, young miss,” the driver – fuck, what’s his name? – says.

“Thanks, Douglas,” Melanie responds, moving her arm off my shoulders.

The car rolls to a stop and I take a deep breath before opening the door. I bring my hand up to shield my eyes from the sun while my eyes adjust from the interior of the armoured SUV with its tinted windows.

“By the way,” Melanie says from back in the car, “you look lovely.”

I turn back to smile at her before doing a quick twirl, my skirt flaring up around me. I never thought I’d ever be seen out in a school uniform, but here I am. It’s not that bad, to be honest, a pleated grey skirt with a white blouse and a burgundy cardigan, it’s just a little weird. Back… well, _home_ doesn’t quite fit the bay anymore, the only school with a uniform was Immaculata, the fancy private school for all the rich people. Here, most of the worlds have school uniforms _everywhere_. It’s a little weird.

Behind me, I hear the SUV pulling away. I guess Melanie had a point; almost every other kid here is being dropped off by their parents. Maybe that’ll change when they get the bus network up and running, plus the railway and subway I know we’re planning, but until then it makes sense for my… my _guardian_ to drop me off. I’m just glad that she didn’t stick around; it’d be less embarrassing.

God, is this really the sort of stuff I used to worry about? _Embarrassment_? It’s not like it can compare to Madison, to Abidjan or Cauldron’s Compound. I look around at all the other kids, each one of them looking a little embarrassed by their parents, and I can’t help but smile.

I’ve missed this.

They’ve only just started the school up, I think there are parts of the building where the paint is still wet, so it’s a bit chaotic, but the teachers are gradually able to tell everyone where their lockers are so they can dump their stuff, then bring them together into this big hall for an assembly. Looking at the crowd, there seems to be about a thousand students in all. Back in the US, I’d be in my sophomore year, but here things are a little different. It’s High School and Junior High rolled into one, running from grade seven all the way up to senior year.

It makes things just that little bit busier, but I can’t say I mind it. I like having more people younger than me than older, it makes me feel more important. The assembly isn’t anything special, mostly the usual speech stuff mixed in with all the things we’d need to know to actually find our way around the site and get used to the schedule.

It’s followed by a long tour in which they split us up into smaller groups and have the teachers show us around the school. It’s the kind of thing that would probably be handled by an older student anywhere else, but the older students are just as new here as everyone else. The whole place smells of polish and disinfectant, all those new building smells that haven’t yet had the time to fade into the background.

The tour groups are mixed, with people from all the different grades in each group. It makes it hard to stop and chat, especially with the teachers right there, so I don’t actually get the chance to talk to anyone until they’re over, and then we’re all sent off to our first lessons. They’re also the last lesson before lunch, because of how much time all the introductory stuff was.

It doesn’t take me long to find the right classroom, tucked away in the back of the English department. The room is about half-full already, people picking their desks apparently based on nothing more than where they want to sit. Maybe there’s a couple of people here or there who knew each other before coming here, but by and large it’s down to random chance as to whether the person you’re next to is an asshole or not.

I don’t let myself dwell on it, moving to take a desk next to a redheaded girl with a patter of freckles across her nose. She’s staring out the window, her elbow on the desk and her chin cupped in her palm, but she turns to look at me as I sit down, her eyes bottle-green.

“Hi,” she says, smiling. “I’m Kit Barker.”

“Emily Wilson,” I say as I rummage around in my bag for a pen.

“Lovely accent,” she says, in her own chipper English voice. “American?”

“Yep.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

I put my pen down on the desk, looking at her with a bemused expression.

“I think we’re all a long way from home. It’s another dimension.”

“Right, but… geographically. I mean, I was born about fifteen miles and a couple of dimensions from here. That’s hardly anything.”

“A real local girl, eh? I’ll have to ask you to show me round someday.”

“Sure! We can get lost together.”

I chuckle to myself, idly tapping my pen against the desk.

“So how do you think they’re going to handle this? I mean, how do you teach English when every dimension probably has different books?”

“It’s probably just the teacher picking their favourites.”

“Maybe-” I start to say, before I’m cut off by the teacher stepping into the room. He looks old and about as stereotypically English as I could imagine, with a tweed jacket and everything. The first thing he does is open up a pair of cardboard boxes and pass out some exercise books and brand-new copies of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, with a little label in the top right corner saying that they were sourced from Earth Four.

As the lesson goes on, it becomes clear that Kit was absolutely right. The teacher has just picked a play he likes and decided that’s going to be the set text for the first term. It kind of works, because he clearly knows his stuff, but he also acts like everyone will already know it. Turns out there’s a couple of kids here from worlds where Shakespeare never picked up a pen, and I kind of feel sorry for them with how the teacher goes on and on about how much they’ve missed out on.

Still, that’s a minor issue. To be honest, I’m kind of enjoying myself. I don’t think I’d ever have said that before, not about an English lesson, but I’ve only just realised that I’ve been missing these small tasks, the simple structure of it all. There’re no ambushes waiting for me here, no impossible odds I need to get past. It’s safe, normal, and just what the doctor ordered.

And then, the lesson is over. I pack up my backpack, now a lot heavier than it was before, and step out into the corridor. I’m about to head to the cafeteria when Kit flags me down, sticking to my side as we’re pushed along by the flow of students.

“So, you’re basically the only person around right now that I actually know, which means I’m going to be sticking to you like glue for the near future.”

“You’ll not get any argument from me,” I say, as I start to go down the stairs, ducking in and among the crowd. When I reach the bottom I stop, only for Kit to practically slam into me, breathing heavily.

“ _Fuck_ you move fast! Maybe slow it down a little, okay? I can’t stick to you if you keep rushing ahead.”

“Sorry,” I say, sheepishly. “I live a pretty active lifestyle.”

“You’re a health nut, got it,” she says, seriously. “I can respect that.”

Hardly. Melanie is just a very effective, and very _enthusiastic_ , coach. Still, I’m looking forward to PE. I was never very good at sport before, so I’m kind of interested in seeing how much change half a year of working as a professional mercenary has had on my fitness.

We talk a little in the line for lunch, but with everyone else talking it’s kind of hard to get anything across. It’s only when we’ve got out food, a plate of macaroni cheese for Kit and sausages with mashed potato and some kind of mysterious edible dish full of gravy, with a few greens on the side of both our plates. The cafeteria itself is absolutely full of people, even though lunch is staggered so that only half the school is having it at any one time, but Kit’s face immediately lights up as she looks across at a distant table.

“Hey, there’s my sister! C’mon, I’ll introduce you.”

She pushes past the tables, leaving me to follow in her wake. I manage to make it through without spilling my drink, to find Kit sitting down at a table, across from a girl who… looks exactly the same as her.

“Emily, this is my sister Nicole. Nicole, this is Emily. She’s _American_.”

“Fancy fancy,” Nicole says, pulling out a chair next to her. “Thanks for putting up with my sister, I know she can be a handful sometimes.” Kit sticks her tongue out.

“I’m assuming you’re both twins,” I say after swallowing a forkful of mashed potato. “Are you the kind that hate each other’s guts, or the kind who wear the same clothes to mess with people.”

“Aren’t there other kinds of twins?” Kit asks.

“Nope,” I point my fork at her, definitively. “Those are the rules.”

Nicole leans in, whispering in my ear.

“I’m Kit.”

“No, you’re not,” I say, cutting off a piece of sausage. “I saw Kit walk all the way across the cafeteria.”

Across from me, the real Kit sighs. “And after I tried so hard to lose you.”

“I’m very observant,” I smile.

“So, I’m guessing you’re corporate, Emily?” A boy with close-cropped black hair speaks up from the other end of the table.

“Come again?”

“Oh, sorry,” he says, suddenly seeming a little sheepish. “I’m Jacob. We’ve been sharing backgrounds. The only people on Zero are from corporate families, or diplomatic families meant to negotiate treaties that make things easier for the companies. It means it’s quite interesting to hear everyone’s background.”

“Our mother’s in macrogenetics,” Kit says. “She’s here with JSKP, from Earth One. She said she took the job because it’d tide her over until Eden is operational, then we’ll probably be moving there.”

“Eden?” I ask.

“It’s a big habitat being built over Jupiter,” Nicole explains. “Mum was part of the team that designed it and germinated the initial seed, and she wants to move us there when it’s done.”

“Fucking sci-fi,” Jacob says, overawed.

“Macrogenetics sounds a little… contradictory,” I say to Kit.

“It’s mostly about splicing DNA for stuff that’s going to become really big. Orbital habitats, mostly, but also a lot of orbit-grown building materials. The kind of stuff that’s gone into the road network here, and the Palanquin arcology. Apparently, it’ll be covered in the advanced science classes.”

I frown. Because of the massive tech-gap between worlds, the sciences are one of the few subjects here that are divided by ability. I got into the advanced classes, with a lot of help, but this sounds heavy.

“I’m kind of worried. I barely managed to get into the advanced classes, and this all sounds a little heavy.”

“Let me see your timetable?” Nicole asks. Once I pass it to her, she compares it to her own, then to Kit’s after she slides hers across the table.

“Looks like you’re in chemistry and physics with me, and biology with Kit. Stick with us, we’ll see you through.”

“Thanks.”

“So, Emily,” Jacob says, leaning forward, “where are you from? The twins are with an Earth One company; my dad’s a bureaucrat with the Earth Nine diplomats; Zoe,” he nods to a girl with her wild frizzy hair, “has parents in an Earth Fourteen shipping company, and, like I said, I’m guessing you’re corporate. Unless the American Revolution went pretty _weird_ on your world.”

I feel butterflies in my stomach, enough that I barely hear Zoe’s murmured ‘the American _what_?’ In the end, I stamp them down. This is a new start; I don’t want to begin it by lying.

“My… well, I guess guardian fits, works for Palanquin.”

“No way!” Kit says, leaping almost out of her seat and across the table. I shrink into myself, looking down and fiddling with my food, as Nicole puts her hand on her sister’s shoulder and pushes her back into her seat.

“Sorry,” she says, sheepishly, “it’s just that… wow.”

“I know what you mean,” Zoe speaks up. “This place is incredible, yet nobody really knows much about the people who built it.”

“Oh I’m not talking about that,” Kit says, waving a hand dismissively, “I’m talking about _powers_. They’ve got the entire genetics division in a frenzy! _Please_ tell me you know someone with powers?”

She takes in a sharp, shocked, breath, “do _you_ have powers?”

I open my mouth, not really sure how to answer, only for Nicole to speak up instead.

“Don’t be silly, sis. Why would anyone give powers to a teenager?”

“What about Robin?” Jacob pipes up.

“Who?” Zoe, Kit, Nicole and I all ask at the same time.

“ _Seriously_?” Jacob stares at us like we’ve forgotten the name of the planet. “He’s Batman’s sidekick? A superhero?”

Kit snorts, like she’s just heard a particularly bad joke. “Superheroes? Really? Way out of style. Trust me, much as I’d love the sight of buff men in spandex, _nobody’s_ going to be buying powers just so they can dress up like a clown and punch muggers.”

“I dunno,” I say, leaning back in my seat. “I doubt every Earth thinks the same way, and there is something to be said for the idea of putting on a mask and becoming a different person. I mean, yeah the whole idea is a little silly, but sometimes a little silliness is what you need.”

“Shit, look at the time!” Nicole says, staring across the cafeteria at the clock. “I swear, an hour is too short for lunch. By the time you’re done queuing, you only have time to eat your lunch and get to your next lesson. That’s hardly any time at all to talk to friends.”

“Well, we are here to learn,” Zoe says as she quickly finishes off the last of the food.

“Oh please,” Nicole retorts. “Nothing they can teach us is worth more than we’ll get out of just talking to each other.”

“This isn’t some power of friendship crap, is it?” Jacob asks.

“Don’t be absurd. I mean, just _think_ about it. There are people from four different words sitting on this table, with our own histories, our own knowledge, prejudices, music, art, film. Our own _perspective_. That’s worth more than any number of lessons.”

I shake my head, finishing off the last of my food and standing up to put my tray away, but she’s right. Deep down, I needed this. I _really_ needed this. I can get knowledge from tutors, I can get music and magazines and all the things I used to talk to my friends about, but they’re not worth anything compared to the friends themselves. I always knew it; I just couldn’t do anything about it.

I’ve got a second chance at a normal life and I’m going to treasure every second of it.


	128. Epilogue: 17h: Ivrina

Gridlock, in Fulham. It must be a day ending in ‘y.’

The street is jammed up both ways, four lanes of silver-chrome vehicles lined up end to end, jostling and shifting for every inch of space. The sun is beating down from overhead, the metal of each vehicle lighting up until the whole street seems to glow with a harsh, white light. I adjust the reflectivity of our own windscreen to compensate, making sure I can clearly see just how stuck we are as we inch forward at a full kilometre per hour.

Every now and then a biker will slip past our window, the rider insulated against the heat in a slick-skinned kooler suit, ducking and weaving through the narrow gaps between vehicles, almost squeezed-up against the flat sides of a twenty-wheeler that’s trying to push through the mass like an elephant through a herd of sheep.

The air is filled with the hum of idling engines, the teeth-rattling shake of air conditioning working overtime to keep the insides of each vehicle cool, even as they pump all that heat out into the air to the point where you could fry an egg in seconds on the bonnet. It’s insidious, maddening, and apparently designed to give me a fucking headache.

Only the mad and the desperate drive in London, yet here I am.

I hit my hands against the wheel in frustration, then flick the radio on in the hope that adding some more noise into the mix will magically make things better.

“-ord Protector Fairfax concluded his visit to the Vatican today with a joint press conference alongside Her Holiness, Pope Anastasia. In an address to the press, the Lord Protector said that, ‘though their two churches formed in different ways and under different circumstances, their shared commitment to one-world Christianity is the bedrock on which new trade will flourish.’ Over the next two days, the Earth Fourteen delegation intends to speak to a number of influential advocacy groups, to present a united front against the use of Affinity. In spite of this, it is expected that the European Federation will grant a further six interdimensional trade licences to biotechnology companies by the end of the month.”

“Turn that dross off,” Wes says, leaning over to the radio and switching stations until he finds one playing some decent acoustic Indian metal. A little harsh for my scene, but it’s hard to find a decent beat you can really lose yourself in on daytime radio, even the halfway decent stations.

“It’s all a bit shite, isn’t it?” I say, shuffling about in my seat a little, just to feel like I’m moving even if the car isn’t. “But I need to stay on top of these things now.”

“Right,” Wes chuckles. “Forgot you’re some hotshot corpo suit now.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say. “For one, I don’t even fucking own a suit. Got nothing but club clothes, scrubs and clean suits in my wardrobe. For two, it’s mostly Melanie who handles the business shit, but I like to keep my ear to the ground when it comes to biotech.”

“So what happens if they get it done?” Wes asks, slurping at the bottom of his drink like there’s actually any of it left. “I mean, if they cut off the bitek.”

“Won’t happen for decades, at _least_ ,” I say. “The money’s too good, and too much stuff is tied up in it. If it ever happens, hopefully there’ll be enough companies on Zero to make it a bit of a bitek haven. You didn’t hear this from me, but word is there’s plans for something similar on the Eden habitat. The industry will survive, in one way or another. Demand is just too high, and Palanquin’s ‘bitek’ is just too tempting.”

“Fucking _superpowers_ ,” Wes says, kicking his feet up on the dash and fiddling with a cig, till I lean over to flick it out of his hand. I like my car stench free, thank you very much. Wes frowns at me for a second before lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back into his seat, trying to get comfortable.

“You thinking about getting them?” he asks out of the blue.

“What?”

“I mean, it’d be pretty easy, right? Just ask your new boss, I’m sure she’d set you up.”

“Nah,” I shake my head. “Not much point, really. I mean, what would _I_ do with superpowers? If I don’t have a good reason, it’s not worth the risk of mutating.”

“I thought you were working on that?”

“Well, not _me_. I’m a surgeon now, not just a surgical nurse, but all that stuff is still way over my head. Paragenetics are working on it, but I doubt they’ll ever be able to completely eradicate the risk.”

A biker rides past us, so close he almost clips the car. I flip him off, but I doubt he saw it. I just wanted to feel better.

“How about you?” I ask, more to distract myself than anything else. “How’s the pit treating you these days?”

“Pretty good,” Wes says, even as his eyes light up. I smile; he still hasn’t changed. Give him a chance to talk about something technical and he’s as happy as a pig in muck.

“We’re managing to stay on top of advances in the tech, which is good, and I’ve been working on improving the haptic feedback link of the taksuit. It’s nowhere near as good as using affinity, of course, but I’ve got a lot of old brainscans from way back when, which makes it a lot easier for me to make improvements than teams who’ve only got robotics experience.”

He seems to drift off for a second, no doubt thinking back on old times.

“As far as the sport itself, we’re winning more games than we’re losing, which is more than most other teams can say. The royalties are starting to roll in from that game they put out, which amounts to a very pretty penny indeed.”

“Hang on,” I say, as I spot the sign for the slip road, “I need to concentrate for a sec.”

I’m in the wrong lane, and moving left isn’t as easy as it sounds. I have to practically wedge my car into a gap, even though it leaves the car behind me honking his horn in impotent rage. A bike darting between the lanes comes to a screeching halt, the rider glaring at me from behind the polarised lens of her featureless helmet. But, though luck or stubbornness or both, I’m able to elbow my car onto the slipway and into the queue of rapidly accelerating vehicles spiralling up onto the M500.

It’s like the whole world just opens up. We’ve gone from a snail’s pace to upwards of a hundred kilometres an hour, flying over the city on the elevated roadway, level with the geodesic golden shape of the Westminster dome filling the left window. It’s wonderful, beautiful, but very brief. In less than a minute, we’re spinning off onto the newest addition to London’s skyline, the six-lane road with six lanes of rail underneath it that gently spirals around Battersea until it’s back down at ground level, where it passes through a portal into another world.

It doesn’t go directly, of course. There’s a bit of a bottleneck where six lanes of traffic are squeezed down into four, but there’s not much of a queue to speak of. The traffic, almost exclusively lumbering twenty-wheelers or fancy executive cars with a few buses thrown in the mix for good measure, is moving quickly through the portal. It’s a bit of an exclusive road, with barriers at the junction linked up to scanners that stop any vehicle without the proper pass.

There’s a sign above the road, above the entrance to the huge warehouse that houses the portal itself, in digital orange text ringed by flashing lights.

**YOU ARE NOW LEAVING**

** EARTH ONE **

**PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY**

The portal itself is every bit as nauseating as ever. It’s not as clean cut as just being a window into another world; it’s three dimensional, which makes it more like looking at a photo taken with a fishbowl lens. It makes it hard to see the road, so the lanes are divided by big concrete barriers and rumble strips to stop vehicles drifting into the other lanes and causing a pileup.

In less than a second, we’ve passed through the portal, leaving behind the unremitting sun of Earth One for the partially overcast skies of Earth Zero. The other side of the portal is technically still Federation territory, a little square of land they bought along with the portal itself. Most of it is taken up by a huge Frontex compound, with lines of lorries waiting to get through customs and onto Earth One. The checks are a lot less strict the other way around, Palanquin itself doesn’t really mind what people ship through and the Federals aren’t really concerned with regulating traffic out, except for a brief passport check.

Not that we have to worry about that, of course. Instead, I take us right to the edge of the various checkpoints, the one reserved for diplomats or other important personnel. It scans our car, checking the fancy little box I’ve got tucked away in the glove compartment, and flags us in the Frontex system as ‘Do not stop, do not search.’ Nobody wants to piss of Palanquin, after all. The Federation might own the portal itself, but everyone knows this is Palanquin’s town.

On the other side of the checkpoints is another sign, raised up high on a billboard so it overlooks the road. This one’s livelier than the utilitarian warnings of the ones on the other side of the portal. It’s Palanquin putting their best face forwards in a riot of colours and lights.

**WELCOME TO**

** NEW TROY **

**THE CITY OF A THOUSAND PLANETS**

The number isn’t accurate, not yet at least. I think the current count is a little over forty. But the actual number isn’t as important as the intent behind it. They’re building a nexus of worlds here, a hub of trade and commerce, and they’re building it _big_. I don’t quite know why, but Melanie wants as many planets as possible on Earth One, even if that means bringing in a few bad actors and totalitarian states. It’s not like any of them would be able to successfully take the place over, not with every member agreeing to defend the city from _any_ attack.

The name itself echoes back to the founding myths of London itself. The legend goes that when the first Romans fled Troy, some of them decided not to content themselves with Rome. They left, looking for greener pastures elsewhere, and eventually came to the British Isles, where they slew the giants of the land and settled the city of Troia Nova, which eventually became London.

It’s all bullshit, of course, cooked up by medieval chroniclers looking to somehow link England and Rome, but, as with the number, the truth isn’t as important as the intent behind the words. Ancient refugees, with no home to return to, travelling to the very ends of the Earth, defeating every threat that tried to stop them, until eventually they found a place where they could settle, where they could build a new home for themselves.

It fits, doesn’t it?

The Earth One portal doesn’t exit onto ground level. The road goes out onto a large platform housing the customs building, which then links directly into the system of elevated roads that criss-cross the city. Earth One is the only world to directly tap into that system, which is the kind of perk that comes with building the damn thing. It doesn’t make much of a difference, but it means the suspended railway under the M500 can just curl right through the portal without needing to change track.

I can see the line turning off to my right, past the edge of the wide road that winds through the city. The trains curve off, the line suspended under the road carrying on under skinny polyp-grown support beams into the miles and miles of rail yards that make up most of the city. Each Earth has its own divergences, its own rail gauge and standardised shipping containers. Most of the people in New Troy are actually employed, in one way or another, with unpacking and repacking goods.

Most, but not all. As I watch, another train emerges from under the elevated road, each car holding a couple of squat, angular tanks. Hundreds of them, in all. Thousands of tonnes of future-shock headed to an Earth at war. In hotels, offices and clubs across the rapidly-growing sprawl of this city, deals are being brokered by national and corporate interests. Nations that have moved past fossil fuels export them by the trainload to worlds that need them to fuel fast-growing industry, in return for raw materials that the more advanced world can process.

Entire industries have grown up around facilitating this trade of goods: money changers, willing to exchange one world’s currency for another; translators, learning the dozens of smaller languages that vie with English, or derivatives of English, for space and selling their skills to trade delegations looking to get their points across; logistics specialists, working on seeing which standardisations are compatible with which, trying to reduce bottlenecks in the endless flow of goods passing through the city.

Even a few weirder, novelty industries. There’s a billboard overhead for a company that promises to find out if their clients also exist on any other worlds, and help them meet their parallel-universe double. I personally can’t see the appeal.

The elevated road network runs right over the city, meant to give all the lorries a clean route through when this place is a hell of a lot bigger and the ground-level streets below us become almost as clogged as the ones back on Earth One. Even now, new growth is rapidly spreading across the city as tower blocks spring up to support the growing population, and shops, bars, restaurants and all the other wheels of commerce arrive to do the same.

At present, though, the buildings aren’t yet numerous enough to block up the side of the roads, meaning we can see the whole city, right the way to the skeletal skyscrapers that are starting to take shape around the immense Palanquin arcology at the very heart of the city.

It’s a pyramidal structure taking up almost the entirety of the Isle of Dogs. I think there’s a message in that as well, but I can’t be sure. Back on Earth One, the Isle of Dogs is a centre for commerce, filled with upmarket skyscrapers and more than a few luxury condos. But the site also has a history as a major part of the old London docklands, back before the docks moved out to the estuary. More than that, it had a long history of civil disobedience, even going so far as to briefly declare independence back in the twentieth century. It could be a fusion of the modern corporate world with the relentless industry that passes through the city, with a slight hint of punk spirit underneath it all.

Or, knowing Melanie, she could have just picked the spot because it’s surrounded on three sides by the river, making it more defensible.

We pull in through the employee entrance, past the checkpoint manned by the City Police. Some might say it’s wrong to have police guarding a corporate building, but Palanquin were the ones who hired and paid for them. New Troy is a corporate city-state, administered from within these very walls. It’s the political and, once the stock market goes online next week, financial heart of the city.

Long-term, I know Melanie has plans to institute a City of London-style Lord Mayor, elected by representatives from the most important companies that’re actually based on Earth Zero, rather than just having branch offices here. They’re building a state from the ground up, but not an intrusive one. The police are mainly here to keep order; New Troy is a hub of mostly-free trade, minus their cut, and Palanquin aren’t going to do anything to jeopardise that.

Wes has been staring out at the city with open awe since I drove through the portal. This is the first time he’s crossed through the portal since Sonnie took us clubbing on Earth Bet. It hasn’t been that long, but it feels like it happened a lifetime ago. So much has changed, since then.

One of the benefits of actually knowing a lot of Palanquin higher-ups is that I get a decent parking spot even though I’m not really all that high-up in the company. My little hatchback looks almost comical in-between fancy executive sedans and armoured transports in police black with a line of red and white check running along their length.

The elevator opens up automatically, recognising the digital signal of the ID badge I’ve got in my jeans, and I hit the button for the hundred and forty fifth floor. As the elevator starts to climb, Wes leans against the wall and looks at me.

“So this is where you’re working now, eh?”

“Yeah,” I smile. “It’s pretty neat. Mostly I’m on call in case there’s complications administering a vial. No major disasters so far, thank fuck, but there’s still been a few times I’ve needed to step in.”

“It sounds rewarding enough, I guess.”

“It has its ups and downs. Plus, I also do a lot of work over in our bitek labs, a lot of the same stuff I used to do for the Predators. I get to work on a lot of interesting stuff, and that’s good enough for me.”

“Good,” he says, but I can tell something’s bothering him.

“Speak up, Wes. What’s eating you?”

“No, it’s nothing, I… I’m just glad you found your feet again. These past few months, I keep thinking about those months after Sonnie… disappeared, wondering if there was anything I could have done differently to stop you from… well.”

I step across the lift and put my hand on his own.

“Don’t think about it like that, Wes. I’m fine now. That’s what matters.”

“Sure,” he smiles, as the lift doors open up into a well-kept corridor.

He’s quiet as he follows me past empty apartments, lounges and other rooms that’ve been left bare for now, but I think he’ll be fine. He’s been hit hard by a lot lately, a lot of his friends dropping off the face of the Earth, but he’s got his new team to keep him grounded, to give him that little bit of human contact we all need to survive.

I pause at the threshold of a familiar door, mentally preparing myself for a split second before pushing it open and stepping into the room. It’s long, and one side of its length is taken up by a large window that looks down to an open-air courtyard near the top of the arcology. There’s a girl down there – Elle, I think her name is – sitting on a fallen pillar among barren ruins in a grassy field. She’s doodling in a sketchbook, peering intently at a pillar of pure white light that rises up past the height of the window, a bare portal not tuned to any particular world.

The room itself only really has two pieces of furniture in it. The first is a plush leather armchair, while the second is a small end-table with a bottle of whisky that’s about three quarters full and a single glass. The chair is facing a massive tank with a glass front, showing an indistinct shape floating within murky red liquid. I step around the chair, resting the palm of my hand on the glass.

It reacts to my touch, menus and diagnostic charts spreading across the surface of the glass. They show all the fundamentals of life. The chemical makeup of the suspension fluid, the current flowing through the water to stimulate enzyme growth, blood content and four flat lines on a long chart. One for each heart.

This room… It’s part memorial, part grave.

I tap a button on the menu and lights along the side of the tank spring into life, while filters run through the fluid within to make it less cloudy. Gradually, Khanivore comes into view. Her skin is blackened and flaking off to the point where I can easily see the chords of muscles that line her body, so many of them frayed and broken like snapped guitar strings. Whole segments of her tail are simply missing, and her body is absolutely covered in deep gashes. Parts of her bone exoskeleton simply… splintered, like broken china that’s somehow managed to hold off on completely fracturing.

I still remember the night they brought her to me. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget.

She’d disappeared without a word to me, all of them had. They’d run off to who knows where to do who knows what, and they’d left me behind to keep everything running on Zero, to keep the contractors happy while they laid the foundations for the city. Then, about a week and a bit later, a fucking portal opens up in the side of my bedroom and one of Melanie’s people shows up. I barely had time to throw on a long-enough t-shirt before he’s dragging me through into my lab.

They had Khanivore – had _Sonnie_ – strapped down to an operating table, looking even worse than now. Melanie was there, armoured from head to toe, but so were people I’d never even seen before. More of her mutated guys, these ones wearing what looked like grey prisoner jumpsuits. Sonnie was convulsing, obviously having a seizure, and the four brutes around her were barely able to hold her down. Faultline looked me dead in the eye, even through that faceless helmet of hers, and said two words to me.

“Save her.”

And how could I not? I didn’t even try to run proper tests, just a rudimentary scan that gave me just enough of a picture to see how truly fucked she was. I had one of the toughs rip off an armour panel, spraying blood everywhere, so that I could stick a shunt in her spine to paralyse her from the neck down.

I went to work with saws and stims and anything else I had on hand, working desperately to try and keep her alive even as she slipped away beneath my fingers. I poured myself into her, until my t-shirt was slick with sweat and blood in equal measure, until everyone else in the room faded into nothingness and me and her were the only people in all the world.

And then… I remembered.

I remembered the Sonnie I knew. Not the way she was before the Estate, but the way she was after. The cruel look in Khanivore’s eyes when I woke her up for the first time, the rage she poured into anything that went up against her in the pit, and the dead-eyed half-life she lived out of it. I was hit by every warning sign I’d ignored because I could fix her body, but I could never patch up a wounded soul.

I started to look at her injuries in a new light, to see every cut and scrape she’s suffered since I first put her in this body, every hardship she’s endured, every second of life I forced into her when she never wanted to live. A single, terrible, thought wormed its way into my mind.

After everything she’d endured, didn’t she deserve to _rest_?

It would be so easy. She was already slipping away from me. All I needed to do was to let go, to go through the motions enough not to anger the mercenaries while letting her slip gracefully into death. I could have made it easy for her, numbing her mind with painkillers so that she found the tranquillity in the end she couldn’t find in life.

But then… then I remembered the Sonnie I _didn’t_ know. The one who came to me in my darkest moment, when I’d gladly have died rather than carried on living, and who put my arm over her shoulder and walked me out of hell. The Sonnie who… who seemed so _happy_ to have found us again, so _eager_ to tell me about the new family she’d found.

The family who… who’d been able to do what I _couldn’t_. Who’d been able to break her out of her shell, talk her down from the edge and coax her back into really _living_ , not just going through the motions of life for our benefit. I looked, and, for the second time, I saw her wounds in a new light.

The world expanded, and suddenly it was more than just the two of us. Suddenly I was surrounded by people, each one of them staring at me and Sonnie with wide, tearful eyes. I saw a girl, she couldn’t have been older than fourteen or fifteen, crying into Melanie’s shoulder, a mask with a maze-like pattern etched into it lying abandoned at the floor by her feet.

Each wound on her body, she took willingly. She let herself get cut, stabbed, shocked, fractured and eviscerated all because she wanted to protect the people she cared about. It couldn’t have been more different than the self-destructive fighting I saw every time she stepped into the pit, where she just wanted to kill or be killed and I could never be sure she preferred the former over the latter.

After everything she’d endured, didn’t she deserve to _live_?

But she was still stuck in a dying body. I was trying _everything_ I could to help her, to _save_ her, but it just wasn’t working. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop her heart from failing, her muscles going slack and her nervous system sparking and sputtering, then falling silent. Nothing…

Except a single, mad, idea. An idea born from desperation and panic, a last roll of the dice to try and see if she could be salvaged from this body that’s been broken beyond repair. I started to laugh, even as tears streamed down my face. I started to cut, to slice, shrugging off the arms that tried to stop me, the people that didn’t understand what I was trying to do. What I was trying to _give_ her.

It was a simple procedure, in the end. I brush my hand over the diagnostics of the dead beastie, its life-giving tank now only serving to preserve the corpse. I shut off the lights, switching off the charts and screens and blinking lights. They’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. She’s not in there.

“There you are,” I smile at the sound of her voice. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

I turn, leaning against the tank and looking at the woman standing in the doorway. She hasn’t changed, still wearing the same ratty old clothes, with the same punk haircut swept across her face. But she doesn’t have any scars, not anymore.

“I know you both just got back, but what do you say we go out for lunch? There’s this fucking great place on the Strand. Chinese, but it’s Earth Twenty-Eight Chinese so it’s like no Chinese you’ve ever had before. Run by a lovely old couple, though they don’t speak a lick of English.”

“It sounds great,” I say, kicking off the tank and striding across the room. Wes does the same and, the moment we get close, Sonnie turns and throws her arms over our shoulders, pulling us both in close.

“It’s good to have you back,” she says, as she starts leading us out of the room.

“It’s good to have you back too, Sonnie,” I say, words that will never be able to match the depth of feeling behind them.

She says something about how we’re both big softies as she practically drags us out of the room, but I’m only half paying attention. My mind is still on Khanivore, on the corpse floating in that tank. She… was what Sonnie needed, at the time. She was armour against the world that terrified her, weapons so that she could vent her anger at the people who hurt her. Life support, I guess, until happenstance led her to people who could fix up the wounds that I couldn’t.

But Sonnie’s different now. She’s not the same person they pulled out of that burning tower block. Not the same person who disappeared from that ruined old church in Battersea.

She doesn’t need Khanivore anymore.

<|°_°|>


	129. Postscript: A note from the author

Dear reader,

Exactly twelve months ago, on the 21st of January, 2020, I posted the first chapter of Ghost in the Flesh. That the last chapter ended up being posted on the 21st of January, 2021, is a complete coincidence, but it does make everything wonderfully symmetrical.

Over those twelve months, I have written, and you have read, four hundred and sixty-nine thousand, seven hundred and thirty-one words. Some of you, precious few of you indeed, took a chance on this story while it was still in its infancy, in those first two arcs as I fumbled about trying to determine what this story actually was and how I wanted it to go.

Most of you joined afterwards, fell in love with the story, and, once you caught up, eagerly awaited the next update. Perhaps, dare I even hope, many more of you have found this story after the fact and have had the luxury of reading through it at your own pace, without being shackled to my at-times irregular update schedule.

Each and every one of you has my deepest thanks. Without the continued interest and enthusiasm, you have shown for my writing, I doubt Ghost in the Flesh would ever have been finished. I certainly don’t think I ever expected I’d actually reach this point, way back when I started.

I am also grateful for the interest you have shown in Sonnie and my efforts to move the story away from Brockton Bay. There are seventeen arcs in Ghost in the Flesh, eighteen if you count the epilogue, and yet only six of them are set in the Bay. I’ve been able to explore the world, and even to build other worlds, rather than shackling myself to the same characters and the same setting.

But at its heart, this has been Sonnie’s story, and I’ve had the time and the opportunity to add depths to her character, to tell a story about recovering from trauma rather than just coping with it, and, through friends and family, becoming a better person. I’ve been inhabiting Sonnie’s head for a year now, and I really think I’ll miss her.

Sonnie doesn’t exist in isolation, however. Building up the character of Faultline’s Crew and the various other members of the cast, based on nothing more than the occasional appearances they had in Worm, has been an incredibly engaging and rewarding experience, as has building and exploring the wider setting.

Faultline’s Crew and the Irregulars largely drop out of Worm’s narrative after Echidna, only re-emerging in time for Gold Moring. Instead, the focus shifts, with interludes exploring Cauldron’s upper echelons rather than their victims. It fits with the story Worm was trying to tell, one full of ever-increasing stakes as the threats get larger and larger, but that wasn’t the story I was trying to tell.

There are four hundred and sixty-nine thousand, seven hundred and thirty-one words in Ghost in the Flesh, and not one of them is _Scion_. Beyond the characters’ own personal journeys, my intention with this story was to show the human cost of the means that led to the end. To show Cauldron from the bottom up, rather than the top down. This is why, when Sonnie and her team finally broke through into Cauldron, they started at the bottom of the tower and finished their journey on the roof, while Taylor travelled from the top down to Eden’s chamber.

And now, my story is done. The cast are happy and safe, their demons, real or imagined, are slain, and they can all move on with their lives in the new world they built together. It has been an honest pleasure to set this story down, and I can only hope you gained as much satisfaction from reading it.

And so, with heartfelt thanks and fond regards, I take my bow, leave the stage, and bid you all adieu.

-Redcoat

<|°_°|>

PS

If any of you have been wondering why I chose that particular bit of ascii art to break apart sections, it’s because this story has platonic _love_ and plenty of _death_ , but not nearly enough _robots_.


End file.
